The End of March

The cold depths of March; green, even, rusted.
Foolish
gradual light, strange warmth.
When rocks show their shivering,
and the cross where paths cross,
edges, coats, and sounds where they are free.
A multitude calls.

Where the stars, light screens with their constant lights,
yearning, even willing
for nationality—not waiting or aiming. Who hung the wintry fair sky— a shock of frost, and the red night-bird
that knew, in laughter of cries, I was here
yet.

Drive people this time—slowly please
sheltered bird—against darkness;
from edges clam and riddle. And though it is cold,
it is only that spring wins in the end;
this way, stone to stone—after all.

• Elizabeth Bishop