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Rh And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons,

And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in?

(Till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence—

When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay;

When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed—

These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.)

Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market

(Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?)

And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness,

And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes?

(Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all-hallowed,