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Thomas Hardy - A Commonplace DayThomas Hardy - A Commonplace Day
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The day is turning ghost, And scuttles from the kalendar in fits and furtively,   To join the anonymous host Of those that throng oblivion; ceding his place, maybe,   To one of like degree.   I part the fire-gnawed logs, Rake forth the embers, spoil the busy flames, and lay the ends   Upon the shining dogs; Further and further from the nooks the twilight`s stride extends,   And beamless black impends.   Nothing of tiniest worth Have I wrought, pondered, planned; no one thing asking blame or praise,   Since the pale corpse-like birth Of this diurnal unit, bearing blanks in all its rays -   Dullest of dull-hued Days!   Wanly upon the panes The rain slides as have slid since morn my colourless thoughts; and yet   Here, while Day`s presence wanes, And over him the sepulchre-lid is slowly lowered and set,   He wakens my regret.   Regret—though nothing dear That I wot of, was toward in the wide world at his prime,   Or bloomed elsewhere than here, To die with his decease, and leave a memory sweet, sublime,   Or mark him out in Time . . .   —Yet, maybe, in some soul, In some spot undiscerned on sea or land, some impulse rose,   Or some intent upstole Of that enkindling ardency from whose maturer glows   The world`s amendment flows;   But which, benumbed at birth By momentary chance or wile, has missed its hope to be   Embodied on the earth; And undervoicings of this loss to man`s futurity   May wake regret in me.
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