when I was 16, we were camping near Gettysburg, and all the sixteen year olds got to go on a ten mile hike through the field where Pickett's charge happened at the end of the three days of the battle. I don't remember too much about the day or the info that we read across the battlefield, but I remember that the field looked so innocent and so long to attack such a well defended position, and it should have felt sad or cathedral like, but instead, it felt like a place to hold a picnic. I'm not sure the poem goes far enough into there. ah well.
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