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The Victory Of The Beet-Fields

Green miles of leafy peace are spread
Over these ranks, unseen and serried;
Screening the trenches with their dead
And living men already buried.
The rains beat down, the torrents flow
Into each cold and huddling cave;
And over them the beet-fields grow,
A fortress gentle as a grave.

“Morose, impatient, sick at heart,

With rasping nerves and twitching muscles,
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