"Do we weep for the heroes who died for us, Who living were true and tried for us, And dying sleep side by side for us; The martyr band That hallowed our land With the blood they shed in a tide for us?"

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I have tried to remember throughout that poetry is made by flesh-and-blood human beings. It is a bloody art. It lives on a human scale and thrives when it is passed from hand to hand.

— Edward Hirsch