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 have 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 imagined one 
Beyond the hills there, who, anon, 
My great deeds done, 
Will be mine alway?

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