The Sun on the Bookcase
Once more the cauldron of the sunSmears 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 strongAnd 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 oneBeyond the hills there, who, anon,My great deeds doneWill be mine alway?
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