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Rh

Dying is sweet On the battle-field In the hissing of arrows and spears, When the trumpet sounds And the sun of noon Is shining, Dying for country's glory And hearing around you: "Hero, farewell!" Dying is sweet For an old, venerable man In the house On the bed Where your forebears were born,—where they died, Surrounded by children Grown men, And hearing around you: "Father, farewell!" But sweeter, Wiser, Having spent the last penny, Having sold the last mill For a woman Who the next day is forgotten, Having come From a gay promenade To the sold, dismantled mansion To sup,