My days are like sands; colorless, Each matched to each, unerringly They drift. The salt bleach of a sea Has washed them clean and lustreless; The teeth of rock on ragged strands Have ground them to an even gray, And one wind blows them a one way. @3But O the slow making of sands.@1 All is here; forgotten things Mix with the unforgettable, Granite blends with tinted shell, And nothing so stable that it clings To its stability. Had there Been more of marble, more of gold, The sands would hide in their grim hold Nothing more wise, nothing more fair. @3But O the slow making of sands.@1 Grain on grain of even gray, Slowly they drift in the one way, Covering the wreck that stands Against my beach of life. . . . one mast Cuts at the sky, the hull is fast In sand -- the slow-made sands that pull With the wind . . . covering . . . And leaving every broken thing Hushed and coldly beautiful. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO OUR MOCKING-BIRD; DIED OF A CAT, MAY, 1878 by SIDNEY LANIER BUCOLIC COMEDY: SPRING by EDITH SITWELL THE NEED OF BEING VERSED IN COUNTRY THINGS by ROBERT FROST EPITAPHS OF THE WAR, 1914-18: 'EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE' by RUDYARD KIPLING MORAL ESSAYS: EPISTLE 2. TO A LADY: OF THE CHARACTERS OF WOMEN by ALEXANDER POPE |