The Darkling Thrush

The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate

When frost was spectre gray

And winters 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 lands sharp features seemed to be

The centurys 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