The Little Green Tents

Because I had the opportunity to delve into the family archives yet again, and again read my ancestor's poetry, I have to post this.

My great-great-grandfather, Moses Rheem Wetzel was a "fife boy" in the Civil War at the age of only 14. He was part of the relief contingent that arrived the morning after the battle at Gettysburg, and he lived long enough to be brought back to the site 75 years later for a commemoration.

He wrote this poem about returning to that tragic place:

The Little Green Tents

The little green tents where the soldiers sleep,
And the sunbeams play and the women weep,

Are covered with flowers to-day,
And between the tents walk the weary few,
Who were young and stalwart in sixty-two.
When they went to war away.

The little green tents are built of sod,
And they are not long, and they are not broad,
But the soldiers have lots of room;
And the sod is part of the land they saved,
When the flag of the enemy darkly waved,
The symbol of dole and doom.

The little green tent is a thing divine,
The little gren tent is a country's shrine,
Where patriots kneel and pray;
And the brave men left, so old, so few,
Were young and stalwart in sixty-two,

When they went to war away.