I chose Rosenberg’s poem “Returning, we hear the larks” for many reasons, but what struck me most was the wartime language permeating a moment that might otherwise read as peaceful. Rosenberg uses words like “ringing,” “showering,” and “dropped” to describe the larks’ song as the soldiers return to their trench—terms we’ve consistently associated with bombs, shells, and destruction throughout the semester. This made me wonder why he frames a brief moment of “beauty” with the language of violence. And as I reread the poem, I began to understand my initial reaction: what first felt hopeful gradually became angry and frustrated, as though I were mocking the larks rather than admiring them. That shift is ultimately what gave the poem new meaning for me: the larks felt less like symbols of solace and more like reminders of what the soldiers can never truly have, their song suggesting a peace the soldiers know is false. This is also why the final line resonated with me so deeply—the comparison to “a serpent” hiding in a young girl’s kiss reveals the soldiers’ awareness that the larks’ music is a kind of deception, offering hope that war immediately takes away.
Reading this poem also felt fitting because it echoes themes that have interested me throughout the semester, especially in Not So Quiet. I was fascinated by Nellie’s accusatory tone toward her mother and Mrs. Evans-Mawnington, and by the ways gender norms both confine and shape her anger. I’ve come to see her inability to directly condemn the war in her letters as a symptom of the limited agency she both resists and reinforces. This also emerges in Not Only War, where Montie’s entire military experience is shaped and controlled by a white man, despite his efforts to resist it. And even in the end, when he dies while trying to save Bob—a moment that could be read as hopeful—I see Montie losing agency once again, his identity and legacy still tied to privileged groups. I noticed a similar pattern in Rosenberg’s poem too: he accuses the larks of offering false joy but retreats at the end, unable to fully articulate the soldiers’ anger, almost emotionally withdrawing himself.
Ultimately, this poem allowed me to further examine the subtle ways authors reveal a lack of agency. This has always been the theme I’m most drawn to, for I enjoy dissecting what emerges unintentionally, beneath the surface. In Rosenberg’s case, that hidden layer exposes the falseness of hope in wartime, where pain is the constant reality and peace is only ever momentary and often misleading.