Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/80

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SANDS
My days are like sands; colorless,Each matched to each, unerringlyThey drift. The salt bleach of a seaHas washed them clean and lustreless;The teeth of rock on ragged strandsHave ground them to an even gray,And one wind blows them a one way.
But O the slow making of sands.
All is here; forgotten thingsMix with the unforgettable,Granite blends with tinted shell,And nothing so stable that it clingsTo its stability. Had thereBeen more of marble, more of gold,The sands would hide in their grim holdNothing more wise, nothing more fair.
But O the slow making of sands.
Grain on grain of even gray,Slowly they drift in the one way,Covering the wreck that standsAgainst my beach of life. . . . one mastCuts at the sky, the hull is fastIn sand—the slow-made sands that pullWith the wind . . . covering . . .And leaving every broken thingHushed and coldly beautiful.
The MeasureHasel Hall

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