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 ] |
