I grew up listening to my father read at the supper table: he read short essays by Mark Twain, Tolkien's The Hobbit, and poetry--lots, and lots of poetry. Sandburg and Whitman, and, my favorite when I was young, Robert Frost.
I can't remember a time when this poem wasn't one of my favorites. I love it both because of the message--one that's especially appropriate to this blog, perhaps--and because of all the hours I have spent scrambling on and over stone walls, picking my way between strands of barbed wire, and holding the cool, lichened surface of stones like those Frost writes about in my hands.
I can't remember a time when this poem wasn't one of my favorites. I love it both because of the message--one that's especially appropriate to this blog, perhaps--and because of all the hours I have spent scrambling on and over stone walls, picking my way between strands of barbed wire, and holding the cool, lichened surface of stones like those Frost writes about in my hands.
MENDING WALL
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
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