The Darkling Thrush BY Thomas Hardy ISC English Poem

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was
spectre-grey,
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.