Poems by Isaac Rosenberg

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The darkness crumbles away
The plunging limbers over the shattered track
In his malodorous brain what slugs and mire,
I snatched two poppies
Nudes -- stark and glistening,
Snow is a strange white word.
Sombre the night is.
I killed them, but they would not die.
Moses, from whose loins I sprung,
Through these pale cold days