With frosted breath, we wait the break of day;
Our bravest wishing night would stay the morn;
When we will face a bristled wall of gray,
And wonder who will die upon the horn;
December thirteenth breeds a foggy dawn;
We gathered musket, sword, and God divine;
To Marye's Heights, we marched in columns drawn,
To fall in brother's blood at Longstreet's line;
With grey a third the blue at Burnside's feet,
And Franklin's troops as dead and surely done,
We crossed the Rappahannock in defeat;
Our legacy, but graves with nothing won.
A northern snow has whitened up the ground;
Beneath a virgin sea, our ghosts are drowned.
Copyright © Claire de la Grange