A Commonplace Day by Thomas Hardy. Read for LibriVox .org by Adrian Stevens. The day is turning ghost, and scuttles from the calendar 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 -nored 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 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. One -ly 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 sepulcher 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 of 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 while, has missed its hope to be embodied on the earth, and under voicings of this loss to man's futurity, may wake regret in me. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Of those that throng oblivion, seeding his place maybe to one of like degree. I part the fire -knawed 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 stride extends, and beamless black impends. Nothing of tiniest worth have I wrought, pondered, planned, nor 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! Onely upon the pains the rain slides, as have slid since morn my colorless thoughts, and yet here, while day's presence wanes, and over him the sepulcher lid is slowly lowered and set, he wakens my regret. Regret, though nothing dear that I wot of, was to ward 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 while, has missed its hope to be embodied on the earth, and under voicings of this loss to man's futurity, may wake regret