IV
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appy the soldier home, with not a notionHow somewhere, every dawn, some men attack,And many sighs are drained.Happy the lad whose mind was never trained:His days are worth forgetting more than not.He sings along the marchWhich we march taciturn, because of dusk,The long, forlorn, relentless trendFrom larger day to huger night. V We wise, who with a thought besmirchBlood over all our soul,How should we see our taskBut through his blunt and lashless eyes?Alive, he is not vital overmuch;Dying, not mortal overmuch;Nor sad, nor proud,Nor curious at all.He cannot tellOld men's placidity from his.
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