We Saw Where The Hand Of
Affection Had Planted The Fleur-De-Lis Or Hung Beautiful Bead-
Wrought Wreaths Upon The Crosses Until This Abode Of The Dead
Resembled A Vast Flower Garden.
Just to the west and divided by a narrow road, our own American
heroes were resting.
Here we reverently paused and placed a
wreath of ivy inwrought with flowers, upon the grave of Lieut.
Lady and another on that of our own Ambrose Schank as a last
loving tribute to all who had so dearly purchased the peace we
now enjoy. While thinking of those other dear friends, Corporal
Edgar Browder, of Chicago, and Lieut. Erk Cottrell, of
Greenville, Ohio, who perished nobly upon the field of duty, we
felt the significance of the words of the poet:
"In Flanders fields the poppies grow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunsets glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from falling hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high;
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep though poppies grow
In Flanders fields."
If you are approaching Gettysburg for the first time you cannot
help but admire those even swells that stretch away from South
Mountain like an emerald sea.
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