| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 92. The Sign |
| | | By Frederic Manning |
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| WE are here in a wood of little beeches: | |
| And the leaves are like black lace | |
| Against a sky of nacre. | |
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| One bough of clear promise | |
| Across the moon. | 5 |
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| It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me. | |
| He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, | |
| Stilling it in an eternal peace, | |
| Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands | |
| Toward him, | 10 |
| And is eased of its hunger. | |
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| And I know that this passes: | |
| This implacable fury and torment of men, | |
| As a thing insensate and vain: | |
| And the stillness hath said unto me, | 15 |
| Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, | |
| Out of the terrible beauty of wrath, | |
| I alone am eternal. | |
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| One bough of clear promise | |
| Across the moon. | 20 |
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