Monday, February 02, 2009

The Darkling Thrush

By Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
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.

3 comments:

Jean said...

Many, many things they know that we do not... or, perhaps, simply miss because of our hectic human life-style.

dianne said...

I have always loved this poem, despite the bleakness and gloom the aged thrush still found something to sing about...we can find happiness in the most desolate of places. ♥

Corby said...

and in desolate situations, it to me is a reminder to hear your own voice in a sense and stay true to it.

I think many animals know what we do not, or what we wish not to know....

:-) Hope you gals are doing good!

-Corby