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Translation (Dark, Mournful Clouds Hang O’er The Sun)

Matilda Betham

Dark, mournful clouds hang o’er the sun,
  Lights gleam portentous in the air,
And yet who knows? This troubled heart
  Still gives not up to blank despair.

Not big with shipwrecks every storm,
  That sweeps the bosom of the main,
Nor does the threatening, turbid sky,
  Always the thunder-bolt contain.
Online text © 1998-2008 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Elegies and Other Small Poems | 1794
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