Isaac Rosenberg quotes- 8 of
Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields
A fair mouth's broken tooth.
Poppies whose roots are in man's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
When the swift iron burning bee
Drained the wild honey of their youth.
The grass and coloured clay
More motion have than they,
Joined to the great sunk silences.
Earth has waited for them,
All the time of their growth
Fretting for their decay:
Now she has them at last!
For a shirt verminously busy
Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths
Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice.
Death could drop from the dark
As easily as song--
But song only dropped,
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