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<\/p>\nWednesday April 9 — Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”<\/p>\n
Lots of spontaneous conversations about shoots emerging from the ground, hints of early blossoms, the last bits of winter snow shrinking visibly. And observations about the way snow operated like a broom and dustpan, gathering debris that begins to be the only sign of once mighty piles of snow. Spring rains have been good to us in Detroit, not too hard all at once, not too much heat all at once. Whispers of melting sounds, flutes but not trombones.<\/p>\n
Robert Frost is famous for many poems and “Mending Wall” s one. Read it like the script of a short play; imagine listening to its sounds. Gradually it becomes clear that the two neighbors are divided by more than their stone wall.<\/p>\n
Have a lovely spring evening.<\/p>\n
john sj<\/p>\n
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“Mending Wall” (1914)<\/span><\/p>\n Something there is that doesn’t love a wall, <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Wednesday April 9 — Robert Frost, “Mending Wall” Lots of spontaneous conversations about shoots emerging from the ground, hints of early blossoms, the last bits of winter snow shrinking visibly. And observations about the way snow operated like a broom … Continue reading
\nThat sends the frozen ground swell under it,
\nAnd spills the upper boulders in the sun;
\nANd makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
\nThe work of hunters is another thing:
\nI have come after them and made repair
\nWhere they have left not one stone on a stone,
\nBut they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
\nTo please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
\nNo one has seen them made or heard them made,
\nBut at spring mending time we find them there.
\nI let my neighbor know beyong the hill;
\nAnd on a day we meet to walk the line
\nAnd set the wall between us once again.
\nWe keep the wall between us as we go.
\nTo each the boulders that have fallen to each.
\nAnd some are loaves and some so nearly balls
\nWe have to use a spell to make them balance:
\n“Stay where you are until our backs are turned!”
\nWe wear our fingers rough with handling them.
\nOh, just another kind of outdoor game,
\nOne on a side. It comes to little more:
\nThere where it is we do not need the wall:
\nHe is all pine and I am apple orchard.
\nMy apple trees will never get across
\nAnd eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
\nHe only says, “Good fences make good neighbors.”
\nSpring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
\nIf I could put a notion in his head:
\n“Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
\nWhere there are cows? But here there are no cows.
\nBefore I built a wall I’d ask to know
\nWhat I was walling in or walling out,
\nAnd to whom I was like to give offense.
\nSomething there is that doesn’t love a wall,
\nThat wants it down.” I could say “Elves” to him,
\nBut it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
\nHe said it for himself. I see him there
\nBringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
\nIn each hand, like an old stone savage armed.
\nHe moves in darkness as it seems to me,
\nNot of woods only and the shade of trees.
\nHe will not go behind his father’s saying,
\nAnd he likes having thought of it so well
\nHe says again, “Good fences make good neighbors.”<\/p>\n