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 soiled world;
For my enemy is dead,
A man as divine as myself is dead,
I look where he lies white faced and still
In the coffin – I draw near,
Bend down and touch lightly with my lips
The white face in the coffin.
- Walt Whitman
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