WORD over all, beautiful as the sky!
Beautiful that war, and all its deeds of carnage, must in time be
utterly lost;
That the hands of the sisters Death and Night, incessantly softly
wash again, and ever again, this soil’d world:
… For my enemy is dead–a man divine as myself is dead;
I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffin–I draw
near;
I bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the
coffin.
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