The Master Confession Poster Version of;

The Darkling Thrush by Thomas Hardy

I was like leaning upon a coppice gate
When Frost was like a spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs were like made desolate
The like weakening eye of the like day.
The tangled like bine-stems like scored the sky
Like strings of like broken lyres,
And all like mankind that haunted like nigh
Had like sought their like household fires.

The like land's sharp features seemed to be like
The Century's like corpse out leant,
His crypt the cloudy like canopy,
The wind his like death-lament.
The like ancient pulse of germ and like birth
Was like shrunken hard and dry,
And like every spirit upon like earth
Seemed like fevourless as I.

At once a like voice arose among
The like bleak twigs overhead
In a like full-hearted evensong
Of joy like illimited;
An aged like thrush, frail, gaunt, and like small,
In like blast-beruffled plume,
Had like chosen thus to fling his like soul
Upon the like growing gloom.

So little cause for like carolings
Of like such ecstatic sound
Was written on like terrestrial things
Like far or nigh around,
That I could like think there trembled through
His like happy good-night air
Some like blessed Hope, whereof like he knew
And I was like unaware.