It has been a while.
Morning Mist at Gettysburg
Low in the morning mist where once the soldiers lay
In Company streets, to rest, or sing, or cook or talk,
The foxes romp and race, and bark and play,
And stop to look, alert to those who go where legends strode.
Out in the morning mist where once the horses moved
In lines as endless as the wind, the deer move by,
Bouncing and leaping, stopping to graze, or look
At those who try to see the riders in the haze.
Above the morning mist where once the smoke and dust
Of battle hotly played the hawks now soar,
Rising in the morning air to find their prey
And elude the ones who would try to smell the powder.
Appearing gently in the thinning mist
The cannon silently guard the ground in which
The blood of generations still abides
In such abundance we must weep again.
Standing softly in the mist the statues gaze
Upon the land so nobly blessed by Giants of the Past.
Such Hallowed Ground, the honored land so bravely served
And guarded now by legions of the dead.
In the shadowless mist of morn the silent shapes appear
Like regiments of marching men, some oak, some ash
All straight and tall, and solid like the men
Whom History has marked as being here.
And now the morning mist is gone,
And likewise are the fox and deer,
And now the moving shapes are still,
Resting on the gentle slopes of glory.
After the morning mist the sun
Shines brightly from the east,
Equally on the North and South
Warming the soil of this honored ground.
Remember the mist and what it shows
And listen to its fifes and drums,
And feel the beat within your breast–
You do not need a band to sound.
Feel the mist upon your face and know
You feel the tears that once were traced
On faces loved by those who fought
And fell upon this noble ground.
William G. “Jeff” Davis 1997