by Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)
O tender first cold flush of rose,
O budded dawn, wake dreamily;
Your dim lips as your lids unclose
Murmur your own sad threnody.
O as the soft and frail lights break
Upon your eyelids, and your eyes
Wider and wider grow and wake,
The old pale glory dies.

And then, as sleep lies down to sleep,
And all her dreams lie somewhere dead,
The iron shepherd leads his sheep
To pastures parched, whose green is shed.
Still, O frail dawn, still in your hair
And your cold eyes and sad sweet lips,
The ghosts of all dreams are them,
To fade like passing ships.

Published by Robin

I'm a retired journalist who still has stories to tell. This seems to be a good place to tell them.

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