Thomas Hardy

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Thomas Hardy



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01. The Darkling Thrush

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The Darkling Thrush 

I leant upon a coppice gate 
When Frost was spectre-gray, 
And Winter’s dregs made desolate 
The weakening eye of day. 
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky 
Like strings of broken lyres, 
And all mankind that haunted nigh 
Had sought their household fires. 
The land’s sharp features seem’d to be 
The Century’s corpse outleant, 
His crypt the cloudy canopy, 
The wind his death-lament. 
The ancient pulse of germ and birth 
Was shrunken hard and dry, 
And every spirit upon earth 
Seem'd fervourless as I. 

At once a voice arose among 
The bleak twigs overhead 
In a full-hearted evensong 
Of joy illimited; 
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, 
In blast-beruffled plume, 
Had chosen thus to fling his soul 
Upon the growing gloom. 

So little cause for carollings 
Of such ecstatic sound 
Was written on terrestrial things 
Afar or nigh around, 
That I could think there trembled through 
His happy good-night air 
Some blessèd Hope, whereof he knew 
And I was unaware.