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Read more poems by Thomas Hardy: Thomas Hardy Poems at Poetry X.

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? 

Added: 25 Feb 2002 | Last Read: 12 Feb 2012 11:24 AM | Viewed: 2614 times

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