Through These Pale Cold Days

Through these pale cold days

What dark faces burn

Out of three thousand years,

And their wild eyes yearn,

While underneath their brows

Like waifs their spirits grope

For the pools of Hebron again–

For Lebanon’s summer slope.

They leave these blond still days

In dust behind their tread

They see with living eyes

How long they have been dead.

–– Isaac Rosenberg [no relation], c. 1914

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