Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/1024

 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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