Thomas Hardy: The Darkling Thrush

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.