The Darkling Thrush
I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolateThe weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like 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 fervourless as I. At once a voice arose amongThe bleak twigs overheadIn a full-hearted evensongOf joy illimited; An agèd thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon 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 blessèd Hope, whereof he knewAnd I was unaware.
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