The Darkling Thrush
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leant upon a coppice gateWhen 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 beThe Century's corpse outleant,His crypt the cloudy canopy,The wind his 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 overheadIn a full-hearted evensongOf joy illimited;An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,In 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 knewAnd I was unaware.
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