幸福的人在被杀之前可以让他们的血管冷却。他们没有怜悯，在弟兄铺成的巷子上，使他们的脚发酸。前线凋零了，但他们是凋零的军队，而不是诗人含泪愚弄的花朵;男人，填补损失的空隙，他们本可以战斗得更久;但没人在意。有些人甚至不再感觉自己或为自己。沉闷最能解决炮弹的嘲弄和怀疑，机遇的奇怪的计算比计算他们的先令更简单。他们不检查军队的屠杀。失去想象力的人是幸福的，因为他们有足够的弹药。他们的精神没有包袱。他们的旧伤保存在寒冷中不能再疼了。 Having seen all things red, Their eyes are rid Of the hurt of the colour of blood for ever. And terror's first constriction over, Their hearts remain small drawn. Their senses in some scorching cautery of battle Now long since ironed, Can laugh among the dying, unconcerned. IV Happy the soldier home, with not a notion How 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 march Which we march taciturn, because of dusk, The long, forlorn, relentless trend From larger day to huger night. V We wise, who with a thought besmirch Blood over all our soul, How should we see our task But 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 tell Old men's placidity from his. VI But cursed are dullards whom no cannon stuns, That they should be as stones. Wretched are they, and mean With paucity that never was simplicity. By choice they made themselves immune To pity and whatever mourns in man Before the last sea and the hapless stars; Whatever mourns when many leave these shores; Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.