The cataract, whirling down the precipice, <br />Elbows down rocks and, shouldering, thunders through. <br />Roars, howls, and stifled murmurs never cease; <br />Hell and its agonies seem hid below. <br />Thick rolls the mist, that smokes and falls in dew; <br />The trees and greenwood wear the deepest green. <br />Horrible mysteries in the gulph stare through, <br />Roars of a million tongues, and none knows what they mean.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragment-26/
