I leave my cot and walk the beach, barefoot,
My feet laved ling-ringly by the latest wave,
Broken along the sloping shore, as it returns.
My print is there, I know, upon the silken sand;
I felt the pressure of my being make its mark
Upon the yielding surface of the smooth wet mat,
And stepping back a pace, can see the dent I made.
But still I must not estimate above its due,
The influence that I have had upon this strand,
For though I build with busy hands a castle here
It may well be tomorrow's walkers on this shore
Will find no trace of it, for like the tide,
Responding to the hand that made the waters stir,
I come in -- I go out.