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.