Treasure Island

Isaac Rosenberg

(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918 / Bristol / England)

Zion


She stood-a hill-ensceptred Queen,
The glory streaming from her ;
While Heaven flashed her rays between,
And shed eternal summer.

The gates of morning opened wide
On sunny dome and steeple;
Noon gleamed upon the mountain-side
'Thronged with a happy people ;

And twilight's drowsy, half closed eyes
Beheld that virgin splendour
Whose orbs were as her darkening skies,
And as her spirit, tender.

Girt with that strength, first-horn of right,
Held fast by deeds of honour,
I ler robe she wove with rays more bright
Than Heaven could rain upon her.

Where is that light-that citadel
That robe with woof of glory ?
She lost her virtue and she fell,
And only left her story.

Submitted: Saturday, April 28, 2012
Edited: Saturday, April 28, 2012

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