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.