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.
