wasted
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, who, anon,
My great deeds done
Will be mine alway?
[Thomas Hardy: The Sun on the Bookcase. In: Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces, 1919]
BusterG - 2. Jun, 09:00
