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Insensibility
I Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins1 run cold. Whom no compassion2 fleers Or makes their feet Sore on the alleys3 cobbled with their brothers. The front line withers4, But they are troops who fade, not flowers For poets' tearful fooling: Men, gaps for filling Losses who might have fought Longer; but no one bothers. 点击收听单词发音
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