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noonday, at my window in the town,

I saw a sight—saddest that eyes can see—

Young soldiers marching lustily

Unto the wars,

With fifes, and flags in mottoed pageantry;

While all the porches, walks, and doors

Were rich with ladies cheering royally.

They moved like Juny morning on the wave,

Their hearts were fresh as clover in its prime

(It was the breezy summer time),

Life throbbed so strong,

How should they dream that Death in a rosy clime

Would come to thin their shining throng?

Youth feels immortal, like the gods sublime.