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Rh On far French hills, here in our churchyards lying,

Or in war's wildest wreckage—yet unfound

In those torn, piteous fields which they, in dying,

Have for us all forever sanctified.

We can not hallow more than holy ground;

All glory we would give them, pales beside

The eternal splendor of those men, who thought

But of the sacred cause for which they fought.

And now, the battles done,

They who gave all, 'tis they alone who won.

In their great faith there was no dark misgiving;

They saw no base self-seekers don the mask

Of high ideals, to batten on the living.

Their vision was a world secure and just

Won by their victory—their only task

To crush one hideous foe; and in that trust

They sped with eager feet, and paid the price

Unstinting, of the last great sacrifice.

That faith they hold.

The peace for which they battled was pure gold,