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Written on Terrestrial Things
por
Thomas Hardy
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I leaned upon a coppice gate When frost was specter-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 fervorless as I At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In 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
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