The speaker compares her days to sand: colourless, uniform, always drifting the same way. Sea and rock have stripped them of brightness, grinding everything to an even grey. There is grief in that monotony, but also something close to awe. The repeated “Oh, the slow making of sands” treats this wearing-down as patient, almost sacred work. In the sand, forgotten and unforgettable things mix together; nothing keeps its original form, yet nothing loses its meaning. Even if the past had contained more marble or gold, the speaker suggests, the sand would hide nothing wiser or fairer. The final image is a shipwreck on the shore of her life, its mast still cutting the sky while the hull is held fast. Slowly the sand covers the wreck and leaves what was broken hushed and coldly beautiful. The mood is quiet, somber, and strangely consoling.
Sands — Summary
My days are like sands; colourless, Each matched to each, unerringly They drift. The salt bleach of a sea Has washed them clean and lustreless; The teeth of rock on ragged strands Have ground them to an even grey, And one wind blows them a one way. But Oh, the slow making of sands.
All is here; forgotten things Mix with the unforgettable. Granite blends with tinted shell. And nothing so stable that it clings To its stability. Had there Been more of marble, more of gold. The sands would hide in their grim hold Nothing more wise, nothing more fair. But Oh, the slow making of sands.
Grain on grain of even grey, Slowly they drift in the one way Covering the wreck that stands Against my beach of life. One mast Cuts at the sky, the hull is fast In sand — the slow-made sands that pull With the wind . . . covering . . And leaving every broken thing Hushed and coldly beautiful.