The Sun on the Bookcase
Once more the cauldron of the sun
Smears the bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they be fled.
Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day. . . .
But wasted--wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imaged one
Beyond the hills there, whom, anon,
My great deeds done
Will be mine alway?
Smears the bookcase with winy red,
And here my page is, and there my bed,
And the apple-tree shadows travel along.
Soon their intangible track will be run,
And dusk grow strong
And they be fled.
Yes: now the boiling ball is gone,
And I have wasted another day. . . .
But wasted--wasted, do I say?
Is it a waste to have imaged one
Beyond the hills there, whom, anon,
My great deeds done
Will be mine alway?
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