The poem
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?