I waive the thought—which never can be rife—
Common’s the crime in every civil strife:
But this I feel, that North and South were driven
By Fate to arms. For our unshriven,
What thousands, truest souls, were tried—
As never may any be again—
All those who stemmed Secession’s pride,
But at last were swept by the urgent tide
Into the chasm. I know their pain.
A story here may be applied: