A poetry!

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At a border-fortress Cicadas complain of thin mulberry-these In the Eighth-month chill at the frontier pass. Through the gate and back again,all along the road, There is nothing anywhere but yellow reads and grasses And the bones of soldiers from You and from Bing Who have buried their lives in the dusty sand Let never a cavalier stir you to envy with boasts of his horse and his horsemanship