Thomas Hardy dun gud, lik wiv pomes. So eres won wot I lik. ‘The Darkling Thrush’, 1900
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 the 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.
6 thoughts on “A Dorset lad’s pome”
’tis luvverely, innit?
JH, it’s dedicated to CT for those dark Dorrrset days. 🙂
It’s certainly grim in Dorset today — dark and grey. Oh well, I’ll be off to my crochet group before too long.
Errrr..? What’s with the silly spelling and bad grammar ? I suppose it’s what passes for humour.
The poem is ok though.
Jazz, it’s just an intellectual thing. 🙂
Appreciated Janus. Thank you.