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But genuine love must prize the past;
And memory makes the thoughts that bless—
They rose the first, they set the last.
And all that memory loves the most
Was once our only hope to be:
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.
I would rather go down to posterity as the humblest private soldier, whose shoeless feet made blood tracks on the soil of Virginia, than the richest magnate who ever clipped coupons from corporate bonds. Who would not suffer for the honor of a soldier rather than live in luxury to be the sneer of time? Who would not have the name of the disarmed Southern soldier
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