The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate7
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
5 The tangled bine-stems8 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
10 The Century's corpse outleant,9
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
15 And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
20 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.
25 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
30 His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
December 31, 1900 1902
7. Gate leading to a small wood. 9. Leaning out