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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg
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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.
Isaac Rosenberg's other poems:
English Poetry. E-mail firstname.lastname@example.org