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 made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbour 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 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 a wall:

He is all pine and I am all 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 neighbours.’

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

Why do they make good neighbours? 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 walking in and what I was walking out,

And to whom I was 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 up there

Bringing a stone grasp firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savaged armed.

He moves into the 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 neighbours.’


imageROBERT FROST is an American poet that should need no introduction. Frost was born March 25, 1874, son of a Harvard graduate and champion of States Rights and the South. The family moved out west for his father to become the Editor at San Fransisco Examiner during the end of the civil war. During this time, Robert Lee Frost was born and unfortunately his father died of Tuberculious a short year later. Frost’s mother, who moved to The States from Scotland at the age of 15, returned to her husband’s native New England to raise baby Frost. The first Frost settled in the New England area in 1634. He graduated valedictorian from his Lawrence, Mass. High School. Frost bounced around from Dartmouth to Harvard and after another try at mill and newspaper work, the now married man settled on a farm near Derry, New Hampshire. Frost went on to teach, write, and rear six children with his wife, Elinor Miriam White. His poetry made him America’s premier living poet as he was appointed U.S. Poet laureate by President Eisenhower in 1958 and he read original work at the U.S. President John F. Kennedy’s inauguration.