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August 1914: Poem by Isaac Rosenberg

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What in our lives is burnt
In the fire of this?
The heart’s dear granary?
The much we shall miss?

Three lives hath one life –
Iron, honey, gold.
The gold, the honey gone –
Left is the hard and cold.

Iron are our lives
Molten right through our youth.
A burnt space through ripe fields
A fair mouth’s broken tooth

Analysis of this poem
  • fire
  • summer

More verses by Isaac Rosenberg

  • God
  • On Receiving News Of The War
  • The Jew
  • Louse Hunting
  • In The Trenches

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