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Posts Tagged ‘disease’

civil war deaths

When brother North fought brother South
Oft in the other’s home,
The bodies fell on battlefields
In woods and fields and loam.

The red plague on the battlegrounds,
Spread by the buzzing bees,
Was still but half the total brought
At rest, by dread disease.

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https://www.phil.muni.cz/~vndrzl/amstudies/civilwar_stats.htm

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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Upon her neck was just a skull;
She had thin stilts for legs.
Two reasons rose for me to mull
Among the milk and eggs.

No picture of a starving child
Was ever worse than she,
An irony that my mind filed
There at the grocery.

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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No ink is now left in the printer.
Old copies are gone; new ones fail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

The loved ones are new as they enter;
Each day that they visit’s a veil.
No ink is now left in the printer.

The new leaves their minds like a sprinter;
The old is locked up in a jail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

The life that remains is a splinter
Though body be hearty and hale.
No ink is now left in the printer.

The spring was not owner, but renter.
Both summer and fall have set sail.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

What’s there is a shell with no center;
The heart’s been torn out of the tale.
No ink is now left in the printer.
The birds have flown south for the winter.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

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Talk happiness.  The world is sad enough
Without your woes.  No path is wholly rough;
Look for the places that are smooth and clear,
And speak of those, to rest the weary ear
Of Earth, so hurt by one continuous strain
Of human discontent and grief and pain.

Talk faith.  The world is better off without
Your uttered ignorance and morbid doubt.
If you have faith in God, or man, or self,
Say so.  If not, push back upon the shelf
Of silence all your thoughts, till faith shall come;
No one will grieve because your lips are dumb.

Talk health.  The dreary, never-changing tale
Of mortal maladies is worn and stale.
You cannot charm, or interest, or please
By harping on that minor chord, disease.
Say you are well, or all is well with you,
And God shall hear your words and make them true.


					

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