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
... For my enemy is deada man divine as myself is dead;
I look where he lies, white-faced and still, in the coffinI draw near;
I bend down, and touch lightly with my lips the white face in the coffin.