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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.
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XXV The ranks of false Tarentum Like hunted sheep shall fly： In vain the bold Epirotes Shall round their standards die：
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X So marched they along the lake； They marched by fold and stall, By cornfield and by vineyard, Unto the old man's hall.
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IV But Roman, when thou standest Upon that holy ground, Look thou with heed1 on the dark rock That girds the dark lake r
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O sweet spontaneous earth how often have the doting1 fingers of prurient2 philosophers pinched and poked3 thee has the n
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by Mark Doty Helen says heaven， for her， would be complete immersion1 in physical process， without self-consciousness- t
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