Isaac Rosenberg

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

Isaac Rosenberg Poems

41. Creation 4/28/2012
42. At Night 4/28/2012
43. Ah, Koelue 4/12/2010
44. Of Any Old Man 4/12/2010
45. Soldier: Twentieth Century 4/12/2010
46. ‘a Worm Fed On The Heart Of Corinth' 4/12/2010
47. Spring 4/12/2010
48. Marching (As Seen From The Left File) 4/12/2010
49. The Troop Ship 4/12/2010
50. God 1/3/2003
51. The Jew 1/3/2003
52. On Receiving News Of The War 1/3/2003
53. August 1914 4/12/2010
54. Louse Hunting 1/3/2003
55. Returning, We Hear The Larks 1/3/2003
56. In The Trenches 1/3/2003
57. The Immortals 1/3/2003
58. Through These Pale Cold Days 1/3/2003
59. Dead Man's Dump 1/3/2003
60. Break Of Day In The Trenches 1/3/2003

Comments about Isaac Rosenberg

  • Gilly (1/25/2018 6:27:00 PM)

    Sad to see the comments below.

    0 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Ellie (1/17/2018 9:55:00 AM)

    He's kinda boring ngl

  • Daniel Nunn Daniel Nunn (11/10/2017 9:34:00 AM)

    I wish my homework was on someone else.
    P.S. Glass of Jews please butler.

  • Da Boss (10/19/2016 6:55:00 AM)

    I really like this bloke we are gs. You should join our squad.

  • Azad Bongobasi Azad Bongobasi (4/16/2015 2:06:00 AM)

    hello poet, I like your poem. from bangladesh

Best Poem of Isaac Rosenberg

Break Of Day In The Trenches

The darkness crumbles away
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 poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies,
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes,
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder, ...

Read the full of Break Of Day In The Trenches

The Immortals

I killed them, but they would not die.
Yea! all the day and all the night
For them I could not rest or sleep,
Nor guard from them nor hide in flight.

Then in my agony I turned
And made my hands red in their gore.
In vain - for faster than I slew
They rose more cruel than before.

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