Break of Day in the Trenches
The darkness crumbles
It is the same old druid Time as ever,
Only a live thing leaps my hand,
A queer sardonic rat,
As I pull the parapet's
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they
Your cosmopolitan sympathies,
Now you have touched this English
You will do the same to a
Soon, no doubt, if it be your
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our
At the shrieking iron and
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver -what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in men's
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.
This was written in a letter to Eddie Marsh in 1916, shortly after he had arrived at "The Front".
In the letter he describes it as "a poem I wrote in the trenches, which is surely as simple as ordinary talk"
Isaac Rosenberg
Other author posts
Soldier Twentieth Century
I love you, great new Titan Am I not you Napoleon or Out of you grew
Marching As Seen From the Left File
My eyes catch ruddy Sturdily pressed back -All a red brick moving glint Like flaming pendulums, Swing across the khaki -Mustard-coloured khaki -To the automatic feet
The Jew
Moses, from whose loins I sprung, Lit by a lamp in his blood Ten immutable rules, a moon For mutable lampless men The blonde, the bronze, the ruddy, With the same heaving blood, Keep tide to the moon of Moses Then why do they sneer at me...
Spring
I walk and To hear the birds sing, Without you my How can there be Spring
