IX. THE BATTLE-FIELD.

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They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars,
Like petals from a rose,
When suddenly across the June
A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, —
No eye could find the place;
But God on his repealless list
Can summon every face.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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