The Darkling Thrush

I have been an avid poetry lover all of my life.  When I was a student at UNC Greensboro, our textbook, “Sound and Sense” had many poems both familiar and unfamiliar.  I still have the original book to this day and it is a constant companion.  It still bears my maiden name along with my dorm name and room number…”Nancy Mills, 303 Hinshaw”.  The pages are worn and dog eared with notations made in the margins.  I still remember the young professor I had that was actually the older brother of one of my high school friends.  He certainly facilitated unraveling the meaning of some of those poems.  Thank you, Bob Gingrich. 

Now, as winter is closing in, it's time for one of my favorite poems to be read once again, "The Darkling Thrush".  It is by Thomas Hardy and was written in December of 1900.  I like to pretend it was written on my birthday!  It is about hope vs. despair....so many are feeling these emotions at this time.  I dedicate this to my former student, Melissa Martin Glick.

 The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

 December 1900

I leant upon a coppice gate

 When frost was specter-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 fervorless 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.

 And no matter how many times I read this poem, at the end, my eyes are always wet.  Thank you Mr. Hardy for being able to stir my soul over and over through the 40 or so years since first I read this poem.