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Best Famous Isaac Rosenberg Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Isaac Rosenberg poems. This is a select list of the best famous Isaac Rosenberg poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Isaac Rosenberg poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Isaac Rosenberg poems.

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by Isaac Rosenberg | |

In the Trenches

 I snatched two poppies 
From the parapet’s ledge, 
Two bright red poppies 
That winked on the ledge.
Behind my ear I stuck one through, One blood red poppy I gave to you.
The sandbags narrowed And screwed out our jest, And tore the poppy You had on your breast .
.
.
Down - a shell - O! Christ, I am choked .
.
.
safe .
.
.
dust blind, I See trench floor poppies Strewn.
Smashed you lie.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Louse Hunting

 Nudes -- stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee.
Grinning faces And raging limbs Whirl over the floor one fire.
For a shirt verminously busy Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
And soon the shirt was aflare Over the candle he'd lit while we lay.
Then we all sprang up and stript To hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons' pantomine The place was raging.
See the silhouettes agape, See the glibbering shadows Mixed with the battled arms on the wall.
See gargantuan hooked fingers Pluck in supreme flesh To smutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in hot Highland fling Because some wizard vermin Charmed from the quiet this revel When our ears were half lulled By the dark music Blown from Sleep's trumpet.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

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 | |

Returning We Hear the Larks

 Sombre the night is.
And though we have our lives, we know What sinister threat lies there.
Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know This poison-blasted track opens on our camp - On a little safe sleep.
But hark! joy - joy - strange joy.
Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks.
Music showering our upturned list’ning faces.
Death could drop from the dark As easily as song - But song only dropped, Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand By dangerous tides, Like a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there, Or her kisses where a serpent hides.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

The Jew

 Moses, from whose loins I sprung,
Lit by a lamp in his blood
Ten immutable rules, a moon
For mutable lampless men.
The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy, With the same heaving blood, Keep tide to the moon of Moses.
Then why do they sneer at me?


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Through These Pale Cold Days

 Through these pale cold days
What dark faces burn
Out of three thousand years,
And their wild eyes yearn,

While underneath their brows
Like waifs their spirits grope
For the pools of Hebron again--
For Lebanon's summer slope.
They leave these blond still days In dust behind their tread They see with living eyes How long they have been dead.


by Isaac Rosenberg | |

Break of Day in the Trenches

 The darkness crumbles away 
It is the same old druid Time as ever, 
Only a live thing leaps my hand, 
A queer sardonic rat, 
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew Your cosmopolitan sympathies, Now you have touched this English hand You will do the same to a German Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes, Less chanced than you for life, Bonds to the whims of murder, Sprawled in the bowels of the earth, The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes At the shrieking iron and flame Hurled through still heavens? What quaver -what heart aghast? Poppies whose roots are in men's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe, Just a little white with the dust.