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.

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