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Can it be possible that these same stars,
That smile in heavenly beneficence
Upon the dewy reaches of the fields,
And shadows of the quiet, sleeping woods,
Shine, too, on Europe's throes of agony?
Yea, even so, and God be thanked 'tis so,—
On War's red death the quiet stars look down
And on the trenches clear Orion beams
As fair as o'er the spires of Coventry;
Some lonely lad from Normandy, perchance,
Or son of far America, may catch
With dying eyes the twinkling Pleiades,
And see in them the old sweet walks of home;
Antares' gleam, Capella's golden light
Speak but one tongue, need no interpreter:
But more, to every doubting heart they speak,
While empires rock, and earth and air and sea
Drink heedlessly the priceless blood of youth,—
God still His watch must keep; the stars still shine!