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by John Keats
This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb, So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins1 red life might stream again, And thou be conscience-calmed——see here it is I hold it towards you. 点击收听单词发音
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