Expression by Isaac Rosenberg

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Call-call–and bruise the air :
Shatter dumb space!
Yea! We will ding this passion everywhere ;
Leaving no place

For the superb and grave
Magnificent throng,
The pregnant queens of quietness that brave
And edge our song

Of wonder at the light
(Our life-leased home),
Of greeting to our housemates.
And in might Our song shall roam

Life’s heart, a blossoming fire
Blown bright by thought,
While gleams and fades the infinite desire,
Phantasmed naught.

Can this be caught and caged?
Wings can be clipt
Of eagles, the sun’s gaudy measure gauged,
But no sense dipt

In the mystery of sense : The troubled throng
Of words break out like smothered fire through
Dense
And smouldering, wrong.

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