THOMAS HARDY
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 seem'd 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
Seem'd fervourless as I.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy Jllimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-be ruffled 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.
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