“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.”—English
poet-novelist Thomas Hardy (1840-1928), “The Darkling Thrush,” in Poems of the Past and the Present (1901).
Hardy’s
poem was published in December 1900. Until a week ago, it seemed like the
Northeast of the United States, where I live, was emmeshed in an endless
summer. Now, all of a sudden, it seems far easier to see the end of the year
and the “growing gloom.”
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