the Century's corpse

Below is a poem by Thomas Hardy, famous for his novels set in fictional Wessex.  The first book I read by Hardy was  Jude the Obscure.  I read it sometime after high school, on a recommendation (thanks for that, by the way!).  The character of “Father Time”, and one particular scene involving him, remains lodged in my memory, as it does for many who read it, I imagine.  So do some other elements of the plot and feel of the book…Jude studying so hard at his little desk and his Spartan-like commitment, images of stone-masonry, his night in the pub, frustration, and sadness.  I remember a wagon pulling away from a stone building in the countryside.  That’s a bit vague but, then, I read the book years ago.  Sometimes just images and feelings remain when looking back on something one has read.

I took a trip to the dark and dripping British Isles not too long after reading that novel, and I brought with a little book that contained poetry by Thomas Hardy.  It was one of those Penguin editions called Penguin ‘60s, I think.  They are very small, and fit easily in a pocket, so they make excellent traveling companions.  I read and reread those poems.  I particularly remember one about three companions traveling across the moor.  By the time I got back home, the book was a mangled, crinkled mess.

I’ve read some other stuff written by him since, and enjoyed it.  During a recent conversation, Jen mentioned the following poem.  I have a collection of poetry with me while I am away from home, and I flipped through it looking for the Thomas Hardy section.  It does have several poems by Hardy but, surprisingly, doesn’t include The Darkling Thrush.  Anyway, here it is.  Enjoy.

The Darkling Thrush

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.