Treasure Island

Isaac Rosenberg

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

Quotations

  • ''Iron are our lives
    Molten right through our youth.
    A burnt space through ripe fields
    A fair mouth's broken tooth.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. August 1914 (l. 9-12). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
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  • ''Poppies whose roots are in man's veins
    Drop, and are ever dropping;
    But mine in my ear is safe,
    Just a little white with the dust.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Break of Day in the Trenches (l. 23-26). . . Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).
  • ''Bonds to the whims of murder,
    Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
    The torn fields of France.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Break of Day in the Trenches (l. 16-18). . . Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).
  • ''When the swift iron burning bee
    Drained the wild honey of their youth.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Dead Man's Dump (l. 30-31). . . Oxford Book of War Poetry, The. Jon Stallworthy, ed. (1984) Oxford University Press.
  • ''The grass and coloured clay
    More motion have than they,
    Joined to the great sunk silences.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Dead Man's Dump (l. 66-68). . . Oxford Book of War Poetry, The. Jon Stallworthy, ed. (1984) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Earth has waited for them,
    All the time of their growth
    Fretting for their decay:
    Now she has them at last!''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Dead Man's Dump (l. 14-17). . . Oxford Book of War Poetry, The. Jon Stallworthy, ed. (1984) Oxford University Press.
  • ''For a shirt verminously busy
    Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths
    Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Louse Hunting (l. 5-7). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
  • ''Death could drop from the dark
    As easily as song—
    But song only dropped,''
    Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918), British poet. Returning, We Hear the Larks (l. 10-12). . . Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).

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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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