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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.

Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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