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  • The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy - Poetry Foundation

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    Mihir Singha
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    The poem describes a scene on a cold, bleak winter evening. The narrator is leaning on a gate when they hear a thrush singing joyfully in the bare tree branches overhead, despite the gloomy atmosphere. Though there seems to be little reason for the bird's song, the narrator feels the thrush's singing suggests it knows of some hopeful truth that the narrator is not aware of.

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    The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy _ Poetry Foundation

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    The poem describes a scene on a cold, bleak winter evening. The narrator is leaning on a gate when they hear a thrush singing joyfully in the bare tree branches overhead, despite the gloomy atmosphere. Though there seems to be little reason for the bird's song, the narrator feels the thrush's singing suggests it knows of some hopeful truth that the narrator is not aware of.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Flag for inappropriate content
    19 views2 pages

    The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy - Poetry Foundation

    Uploaded by

    Mihir Singha
    The poem describes a scene on a cold, bleak winter evening. The narrator is leaning on a gate when they hear a thrush singing joyfully in the bare tree branches overhead, despite the gloomy atmosphere. Though there seems to be little reason for the bird's song, the narrator feels the thrush's singing suggests it knows of some hopeful truth that the narrator is not aware of.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
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    The Darkling Thrush

    BY T H O M AS H AR DY

    I 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 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.

    n/a

    C O N TA C T U S

    N E W S L E TTE RS

    P RE S S

    P R IVAC Y P OL IC Y

    T E R MS OF U S E

    P OE T RY MOBIL E A P P

    61 West Superior Street,

    Chicago, IL 60654

    © 2022 Poetry Foundation

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