Thomas Hardy

(2 June 1840 – 11 January 1928 / Dorchester / England)

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?

Submitted: Saturday, April 10, 2010

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