The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill, I peeringly view them from the top.
20 Who goes there?
And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
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My breath is tight in its throat, Unclench your floodgates, you are too much for.
None obey'd the command to kneel, Some made a mad and helpless rush, some stood stark and straight, A few fell at once, shot in the temple or heart, the living and dead lay together, The maim'd and mangled dug in the dirt, the new-comers.
Earth of the vitreous pour of the full moon just tinged with blue!
12 The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife at the stall in the market, I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.
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