AUGUST 1914 by ISAAC ROSENBERG

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.