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Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep.War is kind.Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die.The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -A field where a thousand corpses lie.Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Stephen Crane
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Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep.War is kind.Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die.The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -A field where a thousand corpses lie.Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.

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There, conspicuous in the light of the conflagration, lay the dead body of a woman__he white face turned upward, the hands thrown out and clutched full of grass, the clothing deranged, the long dark hair in tangles and full of clotted blood. The greater part of the forehead was torn away, and from the jagged hole the brain protruded, overflowing the temple, a frothy mass of gray, crowned with clusters of crimson bubbles__he work of a shell.The child moved his little hands, making wild, uncertain gestures. He uttered a series of inarticulate and indescribable cries__omething between the chattering of an ape and the gobbling of a turkey__ startling, soulless, unholy sound, the language of a devil. The child was a deaf mute.Then he stood motionless, with quivering lips, looking down upon the wreck.