Isaac Rosenberg

(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918 / Bristol / England)

Isaac Rosenberg Poems

1. Don Juans Song 4/28/2012
2. Hearts First Word. Ii 4/28/2012
3. O, In A World Of Men And Women 4/28/2012
4. Tess 4/28/2012
5. Wedded 4/28/2012
6. The Nun 4/28/2012
7. On A Lady Singing 4/28/2012
8. In Piccadi 4/28/2012
9. Hearts First Word. I. 4/28/2012
10. The One Lost 4/28/2012
11. Zion 4/28/2012
12. Isolation : A Fragment 4/28/2012
13. My Days 4/28/2012
14. First Fruit 4/28/2012
15. A Mood 4/28/2012
16. Song 4/28/2012
17. The Burning Of The Temple 4/28/2012
18. The Female God 4/28/2012
19. In The Underworld 4/28/2012
20. Sleep 4/28/2012
21. Far Away 4/28/2012
22. A Girls Thoughts 4/28/2012
23. Chagrin 4/28/2012
24. Dawn 4/28/2012
25. Expression 4/28/2012
26. A Ballad Of Whitechapel 4/28/2012
27. In War 4/28/2012
28. If You Are Fire 4/28/2012
29. The Destruction Of Jerusalem By The Babylonian Hordes 4/28/2012
30. A Question 4/28/2012
31. The Blind God 4/28/2012
32. Killed In Action 4/28/2012
33. Home-Thoughts From France 4/28/2012
34. Spring, 1916 4/28/2012
35. Daughters Of War 4/28/2012
36. The Dying Soldier 4/28/2012
37. From Night And Day 4/28/2012
38. Beauty 4/28/2012
39. A Careless Heart 4/28/2012
40. Girl To A Soldier On Leave 4/12/2010
Best Poem of 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, ...

Read the full of Break Of Day In The Trenches

Dead Man's Dump

The plunging limbers over the shattered track
Racketed with their rusty freight,
Stuck out like many crowns of thorns,
And the rusty stakes like sceptres old
To stay the flood of brutish men
Upon our brothers dear.

The wheels lurched over sprawled dead
But pained them not, though their bones crunched,

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