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III
Happy are these who lose imagination: They have enough to carry with ammunition1. Their spirit drags no pack. Their old wounds save with cold can not more ache. Having seen all things red, Their eyes are rid Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. And terror's first constriction2 over, Their hearts remain small drawn3. Their senses in some scorching4 cautery of battle Now long since ironed, Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. 点击收听单词发音
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