The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy, read for LibriVox.org by Arctua. I leaned upon a copper state when frost with spectra gray, and winter's dregs made desolate the weakening eye of day. Its tangled vines stem score at the sky, like strings of broken liars, and all mankind that haunted nigh had sought their household virus. The land-sharp features seemed to be the century's corpse out-linked, his crypt the cloudy canopy, the wind his death-landent.
The Asian pulse of German birth was shrunken hard and dry, and every spirit upon Earth seemed frivolous as I. At once the voice arose among the bleak twigs overhead, and a full-hearted even song of joy limited, an aged thrush, frail, gone to small, in blast for ruffled plume, had chosen thus to fling his soul upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings of such ecstatic sound was written on to astial things, a far dang eye around, that I could think they'd tremble through his happy good-night air, some blessed hope, whereof he knew, and I was unaware. End of poem this recording is in the public domain.