Marching

(as seen from the left file)

Isaac Rosenberg

My eyes catch ruddy necks

Sturdily pressed back—

All a red brick moving glint,

Like flaming pendulums,

    hands

Swing across the khaki—

Mustard coloured khaki—

To the automatic feet.

We husband the ancient

    glory

In these bared necks and

    hands.

Not broke is the forge of

    Mars;

But a subtler brain beats

    iron

To shoe the hoofs of death,

(Who paws dynamic air

    now).

Blind fingers loose an iron

    cloud

To rain immortal darkness

On strong eyes.

—1915