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Poem by Isaac Rosenberg


My Days


My days are but the tombs of buried hours;
Which tombs are hidden in the piled years;
But from the mounds there spring up many flowers,
Whose beauty well repays their cost of tears.
Time, like a sexton, pileth mould on mould,
Minutes on minutes till the tombs are high;
But from the dust there fall some grains of gold,
And the dead corpse leaves what will never die-
It may be but a thought, the nursling seed
Of many thoughts, of many a high desire;
Some little act that stirs a noble deed,
Like breath rekindling a smouldering fire:
They only live who have not lived in vain,
For in their works their life returns again. 



Isaac Rosenberg


Isaac Rosenberg's other poems:
  1. The Nun
  2. Girl To A Soldier On Leave
  3. The Troop Ship
  4. Sleep
  5. Home-Thoughts From France


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