Читать книгу Satires of Circumstance, Lyrics and Reveries, with Miscellaneous Pieces - Thomas Hardy, Eleanor Bron, Томас Харди (Гарди) - Страница 8

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?