Coney Island
Sara Teasdale
Why did you bring me here? The sand is white with snow, Over the wooden domes The winter sea-winds blow— There is no shelter near, Come, let us go. With foam of icy lace The sea creeps up the sand, The wind is like a hand That strikes us in the face. Doors that June set a-swing Are bolted long ago; We try them uselessly— Alas, there cannot be For us a second spring; Come, let us go.
