Readings and Thoughts on Poetry, Faith & The Imagination. -------------------------------The Darkling ThrushBY THOMAS HARDYI 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 overheadIn 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 soundWas written on terrestrial things      Afar or nigh around,That I could think there trembled through      His happy good-night airSome blessed Hope, whereof he knew      And I was unaware.

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