About the Poem
The thought came to me some years ago while passing through Appomattox, Va. I stopped to observe some of the graves and while gazing over the rolling hills, in my imagination, I could vividly see and hear the horrors of war.
I am 65 years old and I write the poetry of an old man who remembers.
|by James W. Richardson|
|What ghosts walk these hallowed hills,
Where once the cry of battle reigned?
Who are these smoky misty forms that
By their blood this ground was stained?
Their cry of pain floats on the wind.
Echoing from the ridge,
Calling for aid and comfort, but alas,
The spans too wide to bridge.
Only God can help these souls who have
Fallen at the line,
Build no monument to these men, this
Ground shall be their shrine.
Let angels hover above the trees and
Guard these men of yore,
Kiss their cheeks and soothe their brow,
For death shall be no more.