(I'm swiping this poem, written by Richard Wilbur, from GretchenJoanna's blog. Thank you, GJ, for sharing it! Wilbur, born in 1921, is perhaps my favorite American poet, and still writing poems of depth and excellence, late in life.)
Out of the snowdrift Which covered it, this pillared Sundial starts to lift,
Able now at last To let its frozen hours Melt into the past
In bright, ticking drops. Time so often hastens by, Time so often stops–
Still, it strains belief How an instant can dilate, Or long years be brief.
Dreams, which interweave All our times and tenses, are What we can believe:
Dark they are, yet plain, Coming to us now as if Through a cobwebbed pane
Where, before our eyes, All the living and the dead Meet without surprise.
–Richard Wilbur, in The New Yorker January 5, 2009