A March In The Ranks Hard-Prest, And The Road Unknown; A Route Through A Heavy Wood, With Muffled Steps In The Darkness; Our Army Foil'D With Loss Severe, And The Sullen Remnant Retreating; Till After Midnight Glimmer Upon Us, The Lights Of A Dim-Lighted Building; We Come To An Open Space In The Woods, And Halt By The Dim-Lighted Building; 'Tis A Large Old Church At The Crossing Roads--'Tis Now An Impromptu Hospital; --Entering But For A Minute, I See A Sight Beyond All The Pictures And Poems Ever Made: Shadows Of Deepest, Deepest Black, Just Lit By Moving Candles And Lamps, And By One Great Pitchy Torch, Stationary, With Wild Red Flame, And Clouds Of Smoke; By These, Crowds, Groups Of Forms, Vaguely I See, On The Floor, Some In The Pews Laid Down; At My Feet More Distinctly, A Soldier, A Mere Lad, In Danger Of Bleeding To Death, (He Is Shot In The Abdomen;) I Staunch The Blood Temporarily, (The Youngster'S Face Is White As A Lily;) Then Before I Depart I Sweep My Eyes O'Er The Scene, Fain To Absorb It All; Faces, Varieties, Postures Beyond Description, Most In Obscurity, Some Of Them Dead; Surgeons Operating, Attendants Holding Lights, The Smell Of Ether, The Odor Of Blood; The Crowd, O The Crowd Of The Bloody Forms Of Soldiers--The Yard Outside Also Fill'D; Some On The Bare Ground, Some On Planks Or Stretchers, Some In The Death-Spasm Sweating; An Occasional Scream Or Cry, The Doctor'S Shouted Orders Or Calls; The Glisten Of The Little Steel Instruments Catching The Glint Of The Torches; These I Resume As I Chant--I See Again The Forms, I Smell The Odor; Then Hear Outside The Orders Given, Fall In, My Men, Fall In; But First I Bend To The Dying Lad--His Eyes Open--A Half-Smile Gives He Me; Then The Eyes Close, Calmly Close, And I Speed Forth To The Darkness, Resuming, Marching, Ever In Darkness Marching, On In The Ranks, The Unknown Road Still Marching.