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?
Poem by
Thomas Hardy
Biography |
Poems
| Best Poems | Short Poems
| Quotes
|
Email Poem |
More Poems by Thomas Hardy
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on The Sun On The Bookcase
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem The Sun On The Bookcase here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.