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Emily Dickinson · Poems

Poem 248 of 446 · Second Series: Time and Eternity

The Battle-Field

— ✻ —

They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars, Like petals from a rose, When suddenly across the June A wind with fingers goes.

They perished in the seamless grass, -- No eye could find the place; But God on his repealless list Can summon every face.

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