I leant upon a coppice gate, br When Frost was spectre-gray, br And Winter's dregs made desolate br The weakening eye of day. br The tangled bine-stems scored the sky br Like strings of broken lyres, br And all mankind that haunted nigh br Had sought their household fires. br br The land's sharp features seemed to me br The Century's corpse outleant, br Its crypt the cloudy canopy, br The wind its death-lament. br The ancient pulse of germ and birth br Was shrunken hard and dry, br And every spirit upon earth br Seemed fervorless as I. br br At once a voice arose among br The bleak twigs overhead, br In a full-hearted evensong br Of joy illimited. br An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small, br With blast-beruffled plume, br Had chosen thus to fling his soul br Upon the growing gloom. br br So little cause for carolings br Of such ecstatic sound br Was written on terrestrial things br Afar or nigh around, br That I could think there trembled through br His happy good-night air br Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew, br And I was unaware.