he Darkling Thrush - Poem by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate,When Frost was spectre-gray,And Winter's dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the skyLike strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nighHad sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to meThe Century's corpse outleant,Its crypt the cloudy canopy,The wind its death-lament.The ancient pulse of germ and birthWas shrunken hard and dry,And every spirit upon earthSeemed fervorless as I.

At once a voice arose amongThe bleak twigs overhead,In a full-hearted evensongOf joy illimited.An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,With blast-beruffled plume,Had chosen thus to fling his soulUpon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolingsOf such ecstatic soundWas written on terrestrial thingsAfar or nigh around,That I could think there trembled throughHis happy good-night airSome blessed Hope, whereof he knew,And I was unaware.The Darkling ThrushThomas Hardy