‘Killed or wounded-he could not tell’ As a companion to the sad lines of the poem Roll call, this Confederate soldier, fallen on the field of Spotsylvania, speaks more clearly than words. He is but one of 200,000 ‘killed and died of wounds’ during the war; yet there is a whole world of pitifulness in his useless trappings, his crumpled hat, his loosened straps and haversack. Here the young soldier lies in the gathering twilight, while his companions far away answer to their names. The empty canteen will never more wet the lips of the upturned face, nor shall the long musket dropped in the moment of falling speak again to the foe.
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