Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/269

 Rh

E 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.