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Rh Look—who salutes the coffin— lays a wreath of remembrance on the box where a buck private sleeps a clean dry sleep at last— look—it is the highest ranking general of the officers of the armies of the Republic. Across the country, between two ocean shore lines, where cities cling to rail and water routes, there people and horses stop in their foot tracks, cars and wagons stop in their wheel tracks — faces at street crossings shine with a silence of eggs laid in a row on a pantry shelf — among the ways and paths of the flow of the Republic faces come to a standstill, sixty clockticks count — in the name of the Boy, in the name of the Republic.