We are here in a wood of little beeches: <br />And the leaves are like black lace <br />Against a sky of nacre. <br /> <br />One bough of clear promise <br />Across the moon. <br /> <br />It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me. <br />He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh, <br />Stilling it in an eternal peace, <br />Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands <br />Toward him, <br />And is eased of its hunger. <br /> <br />And I know that this passes: <br />This implacable fury and torment of men, <br />As a thing insensate and vain: <br />And the stillness hath said unto me, <br />Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame, <br />Out of the terrible beauty of wrath, <br />I alone am eternal. <br /> <br />One bough of clear promise <br />Across the moon<br /><br />Frederic Manning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sign-10/
