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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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