Exam

I'm taking an exam all this weekend, one of three that I need for my Ph.D. program. The first exam covered the genre of poetry, and this one covers 19^th century British literature. Two things should be apparent here. One: you will be having a much more relaxing weekend than I am. And two: these exams could be improved if we could trim the categories just a smidge.

I’m not sure how this one will go, but the first exam ended up being one of the most rewarding weekends.  Instead of fixating on what else I want to read or learn, it was a relief to spend an entire three days writing down what I already know. A right of passage in some way.

Since I’m yammering all weekend about poems and prose, I thought it might be healthy to simply post one of my favorite poems from the 19^th century and not say another word about it. It's "The Darkling Thrush" by Thomas Hardy.

I leant upon a coppice gate      

When Frost was spectre-gray, 

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.