This week I had reason to think, as we all occasionally do, about the transience of life and how we just never know what might happen.


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

― Frederic Manning

Please Feel Free to Share:


Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Scroll to Top