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On Receiving News of the War

 Snow is a strange white word.
No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost.
Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know.
No man knows why.
In all men's hearts it is.
Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould.
Red fangs have torn His face.
God's blood is shed.
He mourns from His lone place His children dead.
O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume.
Give back this universe Its pristine bloom.

by Isaac Rosenberg
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