Shape and Substance

29 December 2024

The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
      When Frost was spectre-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 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. 

New Year’s Eve is always filled with a mixture of dread and hope for me, endings of things familiar and beginnings of things as yet still dark and foreboding. This year perhaps more than most I feel that sense of the passing of fall into winter, the passing of the known into the unknown. I think that’s why Thomas Hardy’s poem, “The Darkling Thrush” appeals to me, and why I return to it time and again. The poem was first published on this date in 1900 in The Graphic and then appeared again three days later, on New Year’s Day, 1901, in the Times of London. 

Like many of you who follow my writings, I find the gathering gloom of political events more than a little dread-full. I look toward the future with diminished confidence and heightened concern. Still, I will listen, like Hardy, for the birdsong among the branches, for the Hope that, however fantastical and far-fetched, may yet be the harbinger of a coming spring. I don’t know where I will find it—in poetry, perhaps, or the Eucharist, or maybe the sun as it rises above the ridge across from my back porch. Maybe in the touch of someone I love. Winter does not last forever. 

I hope you find your “blessed Hope,” whereof the thrush knew, whether you are aware of it or not. 

All the best,

Paul

___

If you know of someone who would enjoy this little encyclical of mine, please share it with them and encourage them to email me with permission to add their email to the distribution list. Or, if they would prefer, to go to www.shapeandsubstance.com and, once there, subscribe to the blog using the appropriate button on the lower right of the screen. And, as always, please feel free to engage with me either by commenting on the blog or return email. I would love to hear from you.