how the things in the poem the darkling thrush relevant in the recent times
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“The Darkling Thrush” Summary
I was leaning on a gate, on a path leading into a forest. The frost was gray as a ghost and the last of the winter day made the sun look bleak as it descended. The tangled stems of climbing plants cut across the sky like the strings of a broken musical instrument. And all the people that lived nearby had gone away to the warmth of their homes.
The land’s harsh hills and cliffs seemed like the corpse of the just-ended century, leaning out. And the clouds hanging above seemed like the century's tomb, while the wind seemed like a sad song played upon its death. The age-old urge to reproduce and grow had shriveled up. And every living thing on earth seemed as depressed as me.
All of a sudden, a voice rose up from the dreary twigs overhead, singing an evening prayer with limitless joy. He was a bird, frail and old, skinny and small, with his feathers rumpled by the wind. He had decided to sing with all his soul in the increasing dark.
There was no cause for such joyful singing—at least no cause was evident in the world around me. So I thought the bird's happy song carried some secret and holy hope, something that he knew about but I didn’t.