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March 26 1974

 R.
Frost 100th B'day The air was soft, the ground still cold.
In wet dull pastures where I strolled Was something I could not believe.
Dead grass appeared to slide and heave, Though still too frozen-flat to stir, And rocks to twitch, and all to blur.
What was this rippling of the land? Was matter getting out of hand And making free with natural law? I stopped and blinked, and then I saw A fact as eerie as a dream.
There was a subtle flood of stream Moving upon the face of things.
It came from standing pools and springs And what of snow was still around; It came of winter's giving ground So that the freeze was coming out, As when a set mind, blessed by doubt, Relaxes into mother-wit.
Flowers, I said, will come of it.

by Richard Wilbur
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