Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/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-born of right,
Held fast by deeds of honour,
Her 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.

  1. Written at the age of sixteen.