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Isaac Rosenberg - On Receiving News of the War
Work rating: Low

Snow is a strange white word.
No ice or frost
Has asked of bud or bird
For Winter`s cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know.
No man knows why.

In all men`s hearts it is.
Some spirit old
Hath turned with malign kiss
Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face.
God`s blood is shed.
He mourns from His lone place
His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!
Corrode, consume.
Give back this universe
Its pristine bloom.
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