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 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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