This battle fares like to the morning’s war, When dying clouds contend with growing light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day nor night.
这场战斗就像早晨的战争，当垂死的云彩与渐增的阳光相争时，牧羊人吹着他的指甲，既不能说它是完美的白天，也不能说它是完美的夜晚。
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