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 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. |
Friday, 25 January 2013
Thrushes, Darkling and Otherwise
Sad news today about that fine bird, the Mistle Thrush - though I must
say that, like many such reports from the RSPB, it rather contradicts my
own experience. Down my way, the Mistle has never been much of a garden
bird, preferring the tall trees and open spaces of the many parks with
which my southern suburban demiparadise is blessed. When I was growing
up (in the same demiparadise), the Song Thrush was a common garden bird,
and it is certainly much less common now, though I see more than I used
to ten years ago. I still see pretty much the same number of Mistle
Thrushes as I ever did - a fine pair unusually close only the other day
in one of the parks. As for the Starling - in steep decline according to
the RSPB - I haven't seen so many in years as I've seen this winter.
They are recovering very strongly down my day, and on these cold days
I'm seeing far more Starlings than anything else. But back to the Mistle
Thrush - I wonder if Hardy's Darkling Thrush was a Mistle? It sings
pretty much all year round and in the grimmest circumstances (hence its
other name, Stormcock). Hardy would have known of course, but he doesn't
say. Here's the poem, in which Hardy, inspired by nothing more than a
thrush's song, almost lapses into optimism...
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How odd -- when I woke on this very cold morning (14 degrees), reluctant to get up, I said The Darkling Thrush over to myself. And right now, at 3:30, "winter's dregs make desolate/the weakening eye of day".
ReplyDeleteIt's that time all right.
Susan in NYC
It is that, Susan - though over here the days are at last getting noticeably longer. Spring will come!
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افضل شركة نقل عفش بحائل
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