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63 mArk vAn Doren The Unknown Army We are the civil fathers, the poor necessary Clerks of a fair world great death besieges. Close and far the danger; ships and houses Equally expect ambush; the foe’s line Is not one thread, is fabric: a cold cap That tightens. And the young ones have departed. In companies destructive, daring fate To find them, they are deepest in the net To rend it; and they will, and the free skull, Warm again, should praise their blood forever. We have not gone, nor may we; except darkly In dreams—oh, then we bitterly deploy, We venture; and arrive at the most difficult Crossways, where the frost is quickest formed On heroes. Which anonymous we are, In nightmares—oh, the cursing in those thickets When with no moon we come; only with heated Hatred, searching midnight for a nerve To sever in the arm that weaves this skeleton Cloth, this whited silence, this green country’s Shroud that in our sleep we shear away. ...

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