| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 55. The Anvil |
| | | By Laurence Binyon |
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| BURNED from the ore’s rejected dross, | |
| The iron whitens in the heat. | |
| With plangent strokes of pain and loss | |
| The hammers on the iron beat. | |
| Searched by the fire, through death and dole | 5 |
| We feel the iron in our soul. | |
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| O dreadful Forge! if torn and bruised | |
| The heart, more urgent comes our cry | |
| Not to be spared but to be used, | |
| Brain, sinew, and spirit, before we die. | 10 |
| Beat out the iron, edge it keen, | |
| And shape us to the end we mean! | |
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