Poem by Isaac Rosenberg

On a Lady Singing

She bade us listen to the singing lark
In tones far sweeter than its own:
For fear that she should cease and leave us dark
We built the bird a feigned throne,
Shrined in her gracious glory-giving ways
From sceptred hands of starred humility-
Praising herself the more in giving praise
To music less than she. 

1. The Nun
2. A Girls Thoughts
3. God
4. A Question
5. Sleep

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