urn:nl-mpi-tools-elan-eaf:86b84130-8639-4248-9fbf-31296952c9f1
474
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 a 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:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
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 would like to give offense.
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.'
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
a
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:
There
where
it
is
we
do
not
need
the
wall:
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
would
like
to
give
offense.
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.'