>> And [inaudible] one last military poem and I'll move on to other things.
This has to do with the Civil War.
It's called notes toward a spring offensive.
I will begin again in May, describing weather.
How the wind swept up the dust and pigeons suddenly.
Then the rain began to fall on this and that.
The regular ablutions.
The soldiers marched.
The cowards wept and all got wetted down and winded, crushed.
Soldiers turned even dew to mud, shivering uncontrollably
because the mild wind blew through wet fatigues.
They fell down in the mud.
Their pieces fouled, and groveled in the wilderness regardless.
Some died, and how, I will not tell, since I should speak of weather.
Afterwards, the clouds were stripped out of the sky, palpably fresh,
suckingly sweet like bitten peaches, [inaudible] might say peeling tangerine.
The air was warm by light again and those who could rise, rose like crushed chives
from the mud and stank and thought to dry.
The cowards wept and some got well again, profane with flowers.
All was well and I have finished now.
In May, I have described one circle of the day and those beneath it, but not why.
I'm talking about the [inaudible] of the wilderness in Civil War.