In A Time Of Dearth poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry

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.