THE SUN ON THE BOOKCASE
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NCE more the cauldron of the sunSmears 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 strongAnd 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 oneBeyond the hills there, who, anon,My great deeds doneWill be mine alway? “WHEN I SET OUT FOR LYONNESSE” WHEN I set out for Lyonnesse,A hundred miles away,The rime was on the spray,And starlight lit my lonesomenessWhen I set out for LyonnesseA hundred miles away. What would bechance at LyonnesseWhile I should sojourn thereNo prophet durst declare,Nor did the wisest wizard guessWhat would bechance at LyonnesseWhile I should sojourn there. When I came back from LyonnesseWith magic in my eyes,None managed to surmiseWhat meant my godlike gloriousness,When I came back from LyonnesseWith magic in my eyes.
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