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.
But O the slow making of sands.
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.
But O the slow making of sands.
Grain on grain of even gray,
Slowly they drift in the one way,
Covering the wreck that stands
Against my beach of life.mw-parser-output .nowrap,.mw-parser-output .nowrap a:before,.mw-parser-output .nowrap .selflink:before{white-space:nowrap}. . . . 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.
The Measure.mw-parser-output .wst-floatright{float:right;text-indent:0}Hasel Hall