Sand Drift

by Sara Teasdale

I thought I should not walk these dunes again,
  Nor feel the sting of this wind-bitten sand,
Where the coarse grasses always blow one way,
  Bent, as my thoughts are, by an unseen hand.

I have returned; where the last wave rushed up
  The wet sand is a mirror for the sky
A bright blue instant, and along its sheen
  The nimble sandpipers run twinkling by.

Nothing has changed; with the same hollow thunder
  The waves die in their everlasting snow—
Only the place we sat is drifted over,
  Lost in the blowing sand, long, long ago.

Monadnock Valley Press > Teasdale