The
Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy
|
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 seemed 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 |
Seemed 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 carolings |
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 blessed Hope, whereof he knew |
And I was unaware.
|
Thomas Hardy
| Classic Poems |
|
[ Afterwards ] [ At Castle Boterel ] [ The Darkling Thrush ] [ On the Departure Platform ] [ The Robin ] [ The Dead Man Walking ] |