(6 March 1806 – 29 June 1861 / Durham / England)

It Is Night

A night of deep darkness.
On a branch of the old fig tree
A frog croaks without cease,
Predicting a storm, a deluge,
and I am drowned in fear.

It is night,

And with night the world seems
like a corpse in the grave;
And in fear I say to myself:
'What if torrential rain falls everywhere?'
'What if the rain does not stop
until the earth sinks into the water
like a small boat?'

In this night of awful darkness

Who can say in what state we will be
when dawn breaks?
Will the morning light make
the frightening face of the storm
disappear?

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Comments (1)

Who would have behaved differently? I cannot tell.