Bows he his beard on his breast.
It is done; and the moment returns not.
VI
Crouching meanwhile at the front, by the low stone walls and the fences
There on the opposite ridge, the soldiers of Hays and of Gibbon,—
Every man soldierly-proud of the Trefoil he wore on his cap-crown,
Were it of white or of blue, the Trefoil that told he was Hancock’s,—
Crouching expectant and grim, in the roar of that great cannonading,
Broke into cheer after cheer: with the flag of the Trefoil behind him,
Rode the corps-commander, reviewing the line of his legions,