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Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast—
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!
Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white—
I should not fear the foe then—
I should not fear the fight!
More verses by Emily Dickinson
- As If Some Little Arctic Flower
- Alter! When The Hills Do
- Ah, Teneriffe!
- I’ll Tell You How The Sun Rose
- Absence Disembodies—so Does Death