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THE DARKLING THRUSH
``` 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 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 feverous 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 1900 ```
THE DARKLING THRUSH
I rested against a gate in a small wood When Frost was ghostly gray, And the remnants of Winter made everything empty The fading light of day. The tangled vines scratched the sky Like strings of broken harps, And all the people nearby Had gone to their warm homes.
The sharp features of the land seemed to be The corpse of the Century leaning out, His tomb the cloudy sky above, The wind his lament for death. The ancient rhythm of life and birth Was shriveled and dry, And every spirit on earth Seemed feverish like me.
Suddenly a voice rose among The bare twigs above In a heartfelt evening song Of unlimited joy; An old thrush, weak, thin, and small, In wind-ruffled feathers, Had chosen to express his spirit In the growing darkness.
There was so little reason for such singing Of such ecstatic sound In the things around us Far or near, That I thought there might be Some blessed Hope in his joyful air That he knew about And I was unaware.