The Tuft of Flowers I went to turn the grass once after one Who mowed it in the dew before the sun. The dew was gone, and one had been there; I wish I could have been there to see it now.

The grass all day was still; it was a joy
To wander through it, there being no one about; But when I turned, as suddenly as a pleat Does part in the wind, I felt the coming bloom.

To all of life now for a furrow—some say: A flower of air blooming up like a tree. A tuft of yellow blooms for which to strive, And mold me as I mow the clover down, I plowed and laid it bare, to welcome a spring
Of dust and petals coating newly mown hay on
The ground, layered thick with weeds that hasten
With each passing shine—to make flowers bloom.

It was then that I thought I knew why such a flower
Should wait until I mowed—that’s what I love. Not that there was a flower; it was less collapse Of air than coming blooms.—But to wait to see—
And yield to climb, those languid petals rising
To the edges, so fresh and filled by what surrounds—
A quality of light that seemed like fire
I wish I could have been there to harvest from the sun. I missed the timing at the first shade’s hour,
The joy of original bloom. And, oh, yes, the knot Of the flower wouldn’t free me without clinging
Or blossom; I could feel the turning heart
Of things that other lives had touched ahead. It was then the flower was cut for all The other petals who had yet to bloom— To tend our souls beyond the limits of the grass,
Past fear; to break from dust to beauty—
To love; to shape this tuft of flowers, And hold it there, where either light or dark Can tip one way or the other in this bliss.

I had to turn to see the flower die,
To watch it burn by morning dew to sight.

• Robert Frost