Far as the eye can see, in domes and spires, <br />Buttress and curve, ruins of shifting sand, <br />In whose wild making wind and sea took hand, <br />The white dunes stretch. The wind, that never tires, <br />Striving for strange effects that he admires, <br />Changes their form from time to time; the land <br />Forever passive to his mad demand, <br />And to the sea's, who with the wind conspires. <br />Here, as on towers of desolate cities, bay <br />And wire-grass grow, wherein no insect cries, <br />Only a bird, the swallow of the sea, <br />That homes in sand. I hear it far away <br />Crying or is it some lost soul that flies, <br />Above the land, ailing unceasingly?<br /><br />Madison Julius Cawein<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dreamer-27/
