SPECIAL FIELD ORDERS, NO. 15. (1865)

Calling all adorers, foreseers, clarifiers, feelers

heretofore falsely sired to the soil, falsely felled 

therein—this is your ladder. Your idea of air

previously eclipsed and pilloried, your sordid opera 

lorded across acres. The fiddler is pleased with your lilac 

praise. It hangs rarefied and prolific among the cedar. 

Arise, dear rider, record the oracle proper. There is relief 

on your road. The prairie grasses ease and 

roar in your ear, say the name of god in your ear. 

The deer elope among you and cleave the land. 

The sun is your disciple, is draped like oil 

upon your lapel. No discord riles where you reside.