Explore "The Sign" by Frederic Manning on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
We are here in a wood of little beeches: / And the leaves are like black lace / Against a sky of nacre.
One bough of clear promise / Across the moon.
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; / And is eased of its hunger.
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, / Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, / Out of the terrible beauty of wrath, / _I alone am eternal._
One bough of clear promise / Across the moon.