The Sun on the Bookcase

(Student's Love-Song: 1870)


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


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