There is a little mystic clock,No human eye hath seen,That beateth on,—and beateth on,—From morning until e’en. And when the soul is wrapped in sleep,All silent and alone,It ticks and ticks the livelong night,And never runneth down. Oh! wondrous is that work of art,Which knells the passing hour;But art ne’er formed, nor mind conceived,The life-clock’s magic power. [Pg 006] Not set in gold, nor decked with gems,By wealth and pride possessed;But rich or poor, or high or low,Each bears it in his breast. Such is the clock that measures life,—Of flesh and spirit blended,—And thus ’t will run within the breast,Till that strange life is ended.
On Ken Follett’s Facebook page Pan Macmillan created a storybank, as a place for readers to upload their own, real-life stories of World War Two. This ebook contains some of the incredible, moving stories that readers were inspired to post – the voices of a generation and its descendants – as well as a personal piece from Ken himself, about his…
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