"In blast-beruffled plume"

I have a treasured compilation of '100 best loved poems', which I purchased at the Cornell University bookstore in 2009, my first year as a Cornell student after having transferred from UNH. It was in this book that I first read Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush" and have loved it ever since, especially the line: "an aged thrush, fail, gaunt, and small, in blast-beruffled plume, had chosen thus to fling his soul upon the gathering gloom." I sometimes recite this poem to myself when I'm about to give a talk. I picture the thrush on a bitter cold late afternoon, pouring his soul into a joyous stream of song, and I find an inspiring beauty in it. I want to share my passion despite my nerves associated with speaking in front of an audience -- and thinking about the beautiful determination of the Darkling Thrush, choosing thus to fling his soul, propels me forward.

The Darkling Thrush

BY THOMAS HARDY

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.