Fragment Poem by John Clare
Fragment
The cataract, whirling down the precipice,
Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through.
Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease;
Hell and its agonies seem hid below.
Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew;
The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green.
Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through,
Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/23/2024 10:53:15 PM # 1.0.0.1119
