Friday, August 12, 2011

The Darkling Thrush

Picture: "Cottage at East Bergholt" (ca.1833)*
by John Constable (1776-1837)
Oil on canvas, 87.5 x 112cm in Lady Lever Art Gallery, Liverpool

From Wikimedia Commons
* (Relevant since there are tiny bird-like specks, in the British countryside, and the rainbow is an emblem of hope. (c: )


One of my favourite poems.


Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
English novelist and poet.

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 carollings
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.

Quoted from: A Treasury of English and American Verse,
Fritz Krog, ed. (Hirschgraben, 1967)

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