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Visit us online at www.1stWorldLibrary.ORG - 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 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 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.
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