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 imaged one Beyond the hills there, who, anon, My great deeds done, Will be mine alway? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WORLD; SONNET by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH COMPANY COMMANDER by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 11. AL-MUTAKABBIR by EDWIN ARNOLD TO A FLOWER by CORRINNE M. ARTHUR VARIATIONS ON A THEME by ALFRED GOLDSWORTHY BAILEY |