If dreams were in the calendar

Like moons, or holidays, or time for sleep,

Then I could Catch the thoughts that glide away,

That hide so deep.

Then I could find

What lies beneath my mind.

What secret pictures do I keep

That trace my dreaming thus and so,

Jumbled and strange

With things I do not know I know?

I cannot remember, though I try,

Searching for one familiar clue

In the blurred sand I wander through,

Something to tell me why.

I know that a tide of dreams

With long lift and fall

Moves on the vague margin of the mind.

I know a night comes when I leave the world behind

And face the great dark sea of sleep.

The tide is coming in:

New dreams begin.

Green

Crashing waters, cold and clean,

Pour

Up along the shore.

Waves from the deepest bottom of the sea

That never have seen starlight before

Reach up and trace designs

On the sand all night, queer curves

Flung up in long faint lines.

I stand and look at them all day

And wonder what it is they try to say.