Now that the summer season is wearing on, the thrushes are singing at dusk. More than any other songbird, their voices seem to rise as the sun sets. There is something irredeemably sad in the fluting of a thrush as the western horizon sweeps up and takes away the light.
But “irredeemable” must be a lie. Hardy kindles his hope and even Hughes bends to be blent in the prayer. And the thrush remains beautifully inscrutable in his otherness.