A rose’s crimson stain,
  A rose’s stainless white,
Fitly become the immortal slain
  Who fell in the great fight.
    When Armistead died amid his foes,
      Girt by the rebel cheer,
    God plucked a soul like a white rose
      In June time o’ the year.

The blood in Pickett’s heart
  Was of a ruddier hue
Than...