Joy without limit

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.

 

Thank you Mr Hardy for your ‘Darkling Thrush’. I don’t care that the aged thrush you heard was probably just saying: ‘It’s me over here!’ or ‘This is my bit of territory!’ Because its song really does sound like pure joy poured into the air.

But there are so few of them now.

Listen! There!

Perhaps in the stillness of a winter evening you might hear one too.