Tuesday Poem The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

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

Thomas Hardy,  (born June 2, 1840, Higher Bockhampton, Dorset, England—died January 11, 1928, Dorchester, Dorset), English novelist and poet who set much of his work in Wessex, his name for the counties of southwestern England. Read more
The Darkling Thrush was originally published in The Graphic on 29 December 1900 and entitled The Century’s End, 1900, so it is an appropriate poem for the new year and I hope that wherever you live and whatever your circumstances  the blessed hope will be yours to discover this new year of 2016.Thomas HardyIn other words Happy New Year Everyone. And if you thought Tuesday Poem had flown…go here and look in the sidebar where it is thriving …yes this early in the new year. And visit the very large archive of poems from other Tuesday Poets over the last five years.

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