---

Thomas Hardy - The Darkling Thrush
Work rating: Medium

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.
Source
The script ran 0.002 seconds.