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 imaged one Beyond the hills there, who, anon, My great deeds done, Will be mine alway? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON ANOTHER'S SORROW, FR. SONGS OF INNOCENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE TO A CAPTIOUS CRITIC by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR A FORSAKEN GARDEN by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE MOUNT AGASSIZ by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES THE SPINNER by CLARA DOTY BATES THE LINNET by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES LIFE AND LOVE by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING AN EXPOSTULATION WITH A SECTARIST, WHO INVEIGHED AGAINST THE CLERGY by JOHN BYROM |