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Tired with dull grief, grown old before my day,I sit in solitude and only hearLong silent laughters, murmurings of dismay,The lost intensities of hope and fear;In those old marshes yet the rifles lie,On the thin breastwork flutter the grey rags,The very books I read are there—and IDead as the men I loved, wait while life dragsIts wounded length from those sad streets of warInto green places here, that were my own