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124 HERMANN HAGEDORN
Under the jQickering, faint starlight The drooping gleaners come.
Out of the darkness, dim Shadowy shadow-bearers.
Dragging into the bale-fire's rim Pallid death-farers.
In the plain, on the hill. No volleys for their last rite.
We need om* powder — to kill. High on their golden bed, Pile up the dead !
Pyres in the night, in the night !
Torches, piercing the gloom ! Look ! How the sparks take flight I
Stars, stars, make room !
Smoke, that was bone and blood !
Hark ! The deep roar. It is the souls telling God
The glory of war !
— Hermann Hagedorn.
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