Robert Frost

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 repairWhere 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 lineAnd 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 ballsWe 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 out-door 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 acrossAnd 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 wonderIf I could put a notion in his head:“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t itWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows.Before I built a wall I’d ask to knowWhat 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 ratherHe said it for himself. I see him thereBringing a stone grasped firmly by the topIn 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 wellHe 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 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 out-door 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 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.”

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a treeToward heaven still,And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fillBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn’t pick upon some bough.But I am done with apple-picking now.Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.I cannot rub the strangeness from my sightI got from looking through a pane of glassI skimmed this morning from the drinking troughAnd held against the world of hoary grass.It melted, and I let it fall and break.But I was wellUpon my way to sleep before it fell,And I could tellWhat form my dreaming was about to take.Magnified apples appear and disappear,Stem end and blossom end,And every fleck of russet showing clear.My instep arch not only keeps the ache,It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.And I keep hearing from the cellar binThe rumbling soundOf load on load of apples coming in.For I have had too muchOf apple-picking: I am overtiredOf the great harvest I myself desired.There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.For allThat struck the earth,No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,Went surely to the cider-apple heapAs of no worth.One can see what will troubleThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.Were he not gone,The woodchuck could say whether it’s like hisLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,Or just some human sleep.

My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,

The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight

I got from looking through a pane of glass

I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough

And held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was well

Upon my way to sleep before it fell,

And I could tell

What form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,

Stem end and blossom end,

And every fleck of russet showing clear.

My instep arch not only keeps the ache,

It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin

The rumbling sound

Of load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too much

Of apple-picking: I am overtired

Of the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,

Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For all

That struck the earth,

No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,

Went surely to the cider-apple heap

As of no worth.

One can see what will trouble

This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,

The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his

Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,

Or just some human sleep.

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,Thinks these dark days of autumn rainAre beautiful as days can be;She loves the bare, the withered tree;She walks the sodden pasture lane.Her pleasure will not let me stay.She talks and I am fain to list:She’s glad the birds are gone away,She’s glad her simple worsted greyIs silver now with clinging mist.The desolate, deserted trees,The faded earth, the heavy sky,The beauties she so truly sees,She thinks I have no eye for these,And vexes me for reason why.Not yesterday I learned to knowThe love of bare November daysBefore the coming of the snow;But it were vain to tell her so,And they are better for her praise.

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,Thinks these dark days of autumn rainAre beautiful as days can be;She loves the bare, the withered tree;She walks the sodden pasture lane.

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.She talks and I am fain to list:She’s glad the birds are gone away,She’s glad her simple worsted greyIs silver now with clinging mist.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.

She talks and I am fain to list:

She’s glad the birds are gone away,

She’s glad her simple worsted grey

Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,The faded earth, the heavy sky,The beauties she so truly sees,She thinks I have no eye for these,And vexes me for reason why.

The desolate, deserted trees,

The faded earth, the heavy sky,

The beauties she so truly sees,

She thinks I have no eye for these,

And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to knowThe love of bare November daysBefore the coming of the snow;But it were vain to tell her so,And they are better for her praise.

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow;

But it were vain to tell her so,

And they are better for her praise.

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—And that was why it whispered and did not speak.It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,Or easy cold at the hand of fay or elf:Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weakTo the earnest love that laid the swale in rows—Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers(Pale orchises)—and scared a bright green snake.The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

There was never a sound beside the wood but one,

And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.

What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;

Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,

Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound—

And that was why it whispered and did not speak.

It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,

Or easy cold at the hand of fay or elf:

Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak

To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows—

Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers

(Pale orchises)—and scared a bright green snake.

The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.

My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

When the wind works against us in the dark,And pelts with snowThe lower chamber window on the east,And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,The beast,“Come out! Come out!”—It costs no inward struggle not to go,Ah, no!I count our strength,Two and a child,Those of us not asleep subdued to markHow the cold creeps as the fire dies at length—How drifts are piled,Dooryard and road ungraded,Till even the comforting barn grows far away,And my heart owns a doubtWhether ’tis in us to arise with dayAnd save ourselves unaided.

When the wind works against us in the dark,

And pelts with snow

The lower chamber window on the east,

And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,

The beast,

“Come out! Come out!”—

It costs no inward struggle not to go,

Ah, no!

I count our strength,

Two and a child,

Those of us not asleep subdued to mark

How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length—

How drifts are piled,

Dooryard and road ungraded,

Till even the comforting barn grows far away,

And my heart owns a doubt

Whether ’tis in us to arise with day

And save ourselves unaided.

The well was dry beside the door,And so we went with pail and canAcross the fields behind the houseTo seek the brook if still it ran;Not loth to have excuse to go,Because the autumn eve was fair(Though chill) because the fields were ours,And by the brook our woods were there.We ran as if to meet the moonThat slowly dawned behind the trees,The barren boughs without the leaves,Without the birds, without the breeze.But once within the wood, we pausedLike gnomes that hid us from the moon,Ready to run to hiding newWith laughter when she found us soon.Each laid on other a staying handTo listen ere we dared to look,And in the hush we joined to makeWe heard—we knew we heard—the brook.A note as from a single place,A slender tinkling fall that madeNow drops that floated on the poolLike pearls, and now a silver blade.

The well was dry beside the door,And so we went with pail and canAcross the fields behind the houseTo seek the brook if still it ran;

The well was dry beside the door,

And so we went with pail and can

Across the fields behind the house

To seek the brook if still it ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go,Because the autumn eve was fair(Though chill) because the fields were ours,And by the brook our woods were there.

Not loth to have excuse to go,

Because the autumn eve was fair

(Though chill) because the fields were ours,

And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moonThat slowly dawned behind the trees,The barren boughs without the leaves,Without the birds, without the breeze.

We ran as if to meet the moon

That slowly dawned behind the trees,

The barren boughs without the leaves,

Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we pausedLike gnomes that hid us from the moon,Ready to run to hiding newWith laughter when she found us soon.

But once within the wood, we paused

Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,

Ready to run to hiding new

With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying handTo listen ere we dared to look,And in the hush we joined to makeWe heard—we knew we heard—the brook.

Each laid on other a staying hand

To listen ere we dared to look,

And in the hush we joined to make

We heard—we knew we heard—the brook.

A note as from a single place,A slender tinkling fall that madeNow drops that floated on the poolLike pearls, and now a silver blade.

A note as from a single place,

A slender tinkling fall that made

Now drops that floated on the pool

Like pearls, and now a silver blade.

There were three in the meadow by the brook,Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up,With an eye always lifted toward the west,Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloudDarkly advanced with a perpetual daggerFlickering across its bosom. SuddenlyOne helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.The town-bred farmer failed to understand.What was there wrong?Something you said just now.What did I say?About our taking pains.To cock the hay?—because it’s going to shower?I said that nearly half an hour ago.I said it to myself as much as you.You didn’t know. But James is one big fool.He thought you meant to find fault with his work.That’s what the average farmer would have meant.James had to take his time to chew it overBefore he acted; he’s just got round to act.Heisa fool if that’s the way he takes me.Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.The hand that knows his business won’t be toldTo do work faster or better—those two things.I’m as particular as anyone:Most likely I’d have served you just the same:But I know you don’t understand our ways.You were just talking what was in your mind,What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.Tell you a story of what happened once.I was up here in Salem, at a man’sNamed Sanders, with a gang of four or five,Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.He was one of the kind sports call a spider,All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavyFrom a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit.But work!—that man could work, especiallyIf by so doing he could get more workOut of his hired help. I’m not denyingHe was hard on himself: I couldn’t findThat he kept any hours—not for himself.Day-light and lantern-light were one to him:I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night.But what he liked was someone to encourage.Them that he couldn’t lead he’d get behindAnd drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.I’d seen about enough of his bulling tricks—We call that bulling. I’d been watching him.So when he paired off with me in the hayfieldTo load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble!I built the load and topped it off; old SandersCombed it down with the rake and said, “O. K.”Everything went right till we reached the barnWith a big take to empty in a bay.You understand that meant the easy jobFor the man up on top of throwing downThe hay and rolling it off wholesale,Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting.You wouldn’t think a fellow’d need much urgingUnder those circumstances, would you now?But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,Shouts like an army captain, “Let her come!”Thinks I, d’ye mean it? “What was that you said?”I asked out loud so’s there’d be no mistake.“Did you say, let her come?” “Yes, let her come.”He said it over, but he said it softer.Never you say a thing like that to a man,Not if he values what he is. God, I’d as soonMurdered him as left out his middle name.I’d built the load and knew just where to find it.Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round forLike meditating, and then I just dug inAnd dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.I looked over the side once in the dustAnd caught sight of him treading-water-like,Keeping his head above. “Damn ye,” I says,“That gets ye!” He squeaked like a squeezed rat.That was the last I saw or heard of him.I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck,And sort of waiting to be asked about it,One of the boys sings out, “Where’s the old man?”“I left him in the barn, under the hay.If you want him you can go and dig him out.”They realized from the way I swobbed my neckMore than was needed, something must be up.They headed for the barn—I stayed where I was.They told me afterward: First they forked hay,A lot of it, out into the barn floor.Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle!I guess they thought I’d spiked him in the templeBefore I buried him, else I couldn’t have managed.They excavated more. “Go keep his wifeOut of the barn.”Some one looked in a window;And curse me, if he wasn’t in the kitchen,Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feetStuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.He looked so mad in back, and so disgustedThere was no one that dared to stir him upOr let him know that he was being looked at.Apparently I hadn’t buried him(I may have knocked him down), but just my tryingTo bury him had hurt his dignity.He had gone to the house so’s not to face me.He kept away from us all afternoon.We tended to his hay. We saw him outAfter a while picking peas in the garden:He couldn’t keep away from doing something.Weren’t you relieved to find he wasn’t dead?No!—and yet I can’t say: it’s hard to tell.I went about to kill him fair enough.You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.

There were three in the meadow by the brook,

Gathering up windrows, piling haycocks up,

With an eye always lifted toward the west,

Where an irregular, sun-bordered cloud

Darkly advanced with a perpetual dagger

Flickering across its bosom. Suddenly

One helper, thrusting pitchfork in the ground,

Marched himself off the field and home. One stayed.

The town-bred farmer failed to understand.

What was there wrong?Something you said just now.What did I say?About our taking pains.To cock the hay?—because it’s going to shower?I said that nearly half an hour ago.I said it to myself as much as you.

What was there wrong?

Something you said just now.

What did I say?

About our taking pains.

To cock the hay?—because it’s going to shower?

I said that nearly half an hour ago.

I said it to myself as much as you.

You didn’t know. But James is one big fool.He thought you meant to find fault with his work.That’s what the average farmer would have meant.James had to take his time to chew it overBefore he acted; he’s just got round to act.

You didn’t know. But James is one big fool.

He thought you meant to find fault with his work.

That’s what the average farmer would have meant.

James had to take his time to chew it over

Before he acted; he’s just got round to act.

Heisa fool if that’s the way he takes me.Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.The hand that knows his business won’t be toldTo do work faster or better—those two things.I’m as particular as anyone:Most likely I’d have served you just the same:But I know you don’t understand our ways.You were just talking what was in your mind,What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.Tell you a story of what happened once.I was up here in Salem, at a man’sNamed Sanders, with a gang of four or five,Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.He was one of the kind sports call a spider,All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavyFrom a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit.But work!—that man could work, especiallyIf by so doing he could get more workOut of his hired help. I’m not denyingHe was hard on himself: I couldn’t findThat he kept any hours—not for himself.Day-light and lantern-light were one to him:I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night.But what he liked was someone to encourage.Them that he couldn’t lead he’d get behindAnd drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.I’d seen about enough of his bulling tricks—We call that bulling. I’d been watching him.So when he paired off with me in the hayfieldTo load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble!I built the load and topped it off; old SandersCombed it down with the rake and said, “O. K.”Everything went right till we reached the barnWith a big take to empty in a bay.You understand that meant the easy jobFor the man up on top of throwing downThe hay and rolling it off wholesale,Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting.You wouldn’t think a fellow’d need much urgingUnder those circumstances, would you now?But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,Shouts like an army captain, “Let her come!”Thinks I, d’ye mean it? “What was that you said?”I asked out loud so’s there’d be no mistake.“Did you say, let her come?” “Yes, let her come.”He said it over, but he said it softer.Never you say a thing like that to a man,Not if he values what he is. God, I’d as soonMurdered him as left out his middle name.I’d built the load and knew just where to find it.Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round forLike meditating, and then I just dug inAnd dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.I looked over the side once in the dustAnd caught sight of him treading-water-like,Keeping his head above. “Damn ye,” I says,“That gets ye!” He squeaked like a squeezed rat.

Heisa fool if that’s the way he takes me.

Don’t let it bother you. You’ve found out something.

The hand that knows his business won’t be told

To do work faster or better—those two things.

I’m as particular as anyone:

Most likely I’d have served you just the same:

But I know you don’t understand our ways.

You were just talking what was in your mind,

What was in all our minds, and you weren’t hinting.

Tell you a story of what happened once.

I was up here in Salem, at a man’s

Named Sanders, with a gang of four or five,

Doing the haying. No one liked the boss.

He was one of the kind sports call a spider,

All wiry arms and legs that spread out wavy

From a humped body nigh as big as a biscuit.

But work!—that man could work, especially

If by so doing he could get more work

Out of his hired help. I’m not denying

He was hard on himself: I couldn’t find

That he kept any hours—not for himself.

Day-light and lantern-light were one to him:

I’ve heard him pounding in the barn all night.

But what he liked was someone to encourage.

Them that he couldn’t lead he’d get behind

And drive, the way you can, you know, in mowing—

Keep at their heels and threaten to mow their legs off.

I’d seen about enough of his bulling tricks—

We call that bulling. I’d been watching him.

So when he paired off with me in the hayfield

To load the load, thinks I, look out for trouble!

I built the load and topped it off; old Sanders

Combed it down with the rake and said, “O. K.”

Everything went right till we reached the barn

With a big take to empty in a bay.

You understand that meant the easy job

For the man up on top of throwing down

The hay and rolling it off wholesale,

Where, on a mow, it would have been slow lifting.

You wouldn’t think a fellow’d need much urging

Under those circumstances, would you now?

But the old fool seizes his fork in both hands,

And looking up bewhiskered out of the pit,

Shouts like an army captain, “Let her come!”

Thinks I, d’ye mean it? “What was that you said?”

I asked out loud so’s there’d be no mistake.

“Did you say, let her come?” “Yes, let her come.”

He said it over, but he said it softer.

Never you say a thing like that to a man,

Not if he values what he is. God, I’d as soon

Murdered him as left out his middle name.

I’d built the load and knew just where to find it.

Two or three forkfuls I picked lightly round for

Like meditating, and then I just dug in

And dumped the rackful on him in ten lots.

I looked over the side once in the dust

And caught sight of him treading-water-like,

Keeping his head above. “Damn ye,” I says,

“That gets ye!” He squeaked like a squeezed rat.

That was the last I saw or heard of him.I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck,And sort of waiting to be asked about it,One of the boys sings out, “Where’s the old man?”“I left him in the barn, under the hay.If you want him you can go and dig him out.”They realized from the way I swobbed my neckMore than was needed, something must be up.They headed for the barn—I stayed where I was.They told me afterward: First they forked hay,A lot of it, out into the barn floor.Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle!I guess they thought I’d spiked him in the templeBefore I buried him, else I couldn’t have managed.They excavated more. “Go keep his wifeOut of the barn.”Some one looked in a window;And curse me, if he wasn’t in the kitchen,Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feetStuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.He looked so mad in back, and so disgustedThere was no one that dared to stir him upOr let him know that he was being looked at.Apparently I hadn’t buried him(I may have knocked him down), but just my tryingTo bury him had hurt his dignity.He had gone to the house so’s not to face me.He kept away from us all afternoon.We tended to his hay. We saw him outAfter a while picking peas in the garden:He couldn’t keep away from doing something.

That was the last I saw or heard of him.

I cleaned the rack and drove out to cool off.

As I sat mopping the hayseed from my neck,

And sort of waiting to be asked about it,

One of the boys sings out, “Where’s the old man?”

“I left him in the barn, under the hay.

If you want him you can go and dig him out.”

They realized from the way I swobbed my neck

More than was needed, something must be up.

They headed for the barn—I stayed where I was.

They told me afterward: First they forked hay,

A lot of it, out into the barn floor.

Nothing! They listened for him. Not a rustle!

I guess they thought I’d spiked him in the temple

Before I buried him, else I couldn’t have managed.

They excavated more. “Go keep his wife

Out of the barn.”

Some one looked in a window;

And curse me, if he wasn’t in the kitchen,

Slumped way down in a chair, with both his feet

Stuck in the oven, the hottest day that summer.

He looked so mad in back, and so disgusted

There was no one that dared to stir him up

Or let him know that he was being looked at.

Apparently I hadn’t buried him

(I may have knocked him down), but just my trying

To bury him had hurt his dignity.

He had gone to the house so’s not to face me.

He kept away from us all afternoon.

We tended to his hay. We saw him out

After a while picking peas in the garden:

He couldn’t keep away from doing something.

Weren’t you relieved to find he wasn’t dead?

No!—and yet I can’t say: it’s hard to tell.I went about to kill him fair enough.

No!—and yet I can’t say: it’s hard to tell.

I went about to kill him fair enough.

You took an awkward way. Did he discharge you?

Discharge me? No! He knew I did just right.

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