THE DARKLING THRUSH by : Thomas Hardy
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 .
Photographer : Kevin Nickell PORTFOLIO MAGAZINE 75