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For Ares, lord of strife,tWho doth the swaying scales of battle hold,t War’s money-changer, giving dust for gold,t Sends back, to hearts that held them dear,tScant ash of warriors, wept with many a tear,tLight to the hand, but heavy to the soul;t Yea, fills the light urn fullt With what survived the flame—tDeath’s dusty measure of a hero’s frame!
