In A Time Of Dearth

Before me, On either side of me, I see sand. If I turn the corner of my house, I see sand, Long, brown Lines and levels of flat Sand. If I could only see a caravan Heave over the edge of it: The camels wobbling and swaying, Stepping like ostriches, With rocking palanquins Whose curtains conceal Languors and faintnesses, Muslins tossed aside, And a disorder of cushions. The swinging curtains would pique and solace me. But I only see sand, Long, brown sand - Sand. If I could only see a herd of Arab horses Galloping, Their manes and tails pulled straight By the speed of their going; Their bodies sleek and round Like bellying sails. They would beat the sand with their fore feet, And scatter it with their hind feet, So that it whirled in a cloud of orange, And the sun through it Was clip-edged, without rays, and dun. But I only see sand, Long, brown, hot sand - Sand. If I could only see a mirage, Blue-white at the horizon, With palm-trees about it; Tall, windless palm-trees, grouped about a-glitter. If I could strain toward it, And think of the water creeping round my ankles, Tickling under my knees, Leeching up my sides, Spreading over my back. But I only feel the grinding beneath my feet. And I only see sand, Long, dry sand, Scorching sand - Sand. If a sand-storm would only come And spit against my windows, Snapping upon them, and ringing their vibrations; Swirling over the roof; Seeping under the door-jamb; Suffocating me and making me struggle for air. But I only see sand - Sand lying dead in the sun. Lines and lines of sand - Sand. I will paste newspapers over the windows to shut out the sand; I will fit them into one another, and fasten the corners. Then I will strike matches And read of politics and murders and festivals Three years old. But I shall not see the sand any more, And I can read While my matches last.