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?
More verses by Thomas Hardy
- To Meet, Or Otherwise
- The Slow Nature
- The Spell Of The Rose
- The Supplanter: A Tale
- The West-Of-Wessex Girl