August 1914
Rosenberg asks what is destroyed in the fire of war from our lives. He describes life as having three aspects, represented by iron, honey and gold. When the gold and the honey have disappeared or run out, what is left is the iron, which is hard and cold. Our lives are iron and when we are young it is molten and can be shaped. Yet, now it is a negative aspect, a hole in a field which is ripe, and a broken tooth in anotherwise adequate mouth.
Break of Day in the Trenches
In this poem, Rosenberg describes time in the trenches during the war. The darkness of night is fading and the time has come to move on. The only thing moving near him is something alive, a rat. He prepares the parapet's poppy by his ear. He remarks to the rat that it would be shot, if they knew its thoughts. It touches the hands of the English, but also the Germans if it desires to cross the land between trenches.
As he describes the rat passing by the soldiers, Rosenberg paints a horrific image, relaying that the rat is more likely to live than the soldiers, who are themselves murderers. They are physically like athletes, but lie in awful conditions in the depth of the earth, there in France.
Rosenberg asks the rat what it can see in the eyes of the soldiers, including himself, when the flames roar and the iron cries. He notes that the roots of poppies are in the veins of men, and they are dropping more and more. He regards his as safe though, tucked in behind his ear and coated with white dust.
Through these Pale Cold Days
Rosenberg considers that in these days, that are cold, darkened faces are burned and their eyes desire Hebron's pools and the slopes ofLebanon in summer. Their spirits are broken, like the poor and homeless, which can be seen under their eyebrows. They have left behind the pale days in dust, and through their eyes, which live, they can see for how long they have been dead.
Returning, We Hear the Larks
Rosenberg describes the melancholy nature of night. Even though he hand his companions are alive at that moment, they are aware of the menacing threat before them. They drag their tired and burdened limbs, knowing only that the awful tracks open there, on their camp, and the sleep. They celebrate the joy of hearing larks, although they cannot see them. Their music is sweet to their ears as they turn their faces towards the sky to listen.
They could die at any moment, from a blow sent from the sky, that falls as suddenly as the song of the larks. However, it is only these songs that fall upon them.
