Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
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That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, |
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And spills the upper boulders in the sun, |
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And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. |
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The work of hunters is another thing: |
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I have come after them and made repair |
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Where they have left not one stone on a stone, |
¡@ |
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, |
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To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, |
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No one has seen them made or heard them made, |
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But at spring mending-time we find them there. |
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I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; |
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And on a day we meet to walk the line |
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And set the wall between us once again. |
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We keep the wall between us as we go. |
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To each the boulders that have fallen to each. |
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And some are loaves and some so nearly balls |
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We have to use a spell to make them balance: |
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'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' |
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We wear our fingers rough with handling them. |
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Oh, just another kind of out-door game, |
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One on a side. It comes to little more: |
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There where it is we do not need the wall: |
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He is all pine and I am apple orchard. |
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My apple trees will never get across |
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And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. |
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He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'. |
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Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder |
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If I could put a notion in his head: |
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'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it |
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Where there are cows? |
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But here there are no cows. |
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Before I built a wall I'd ask to know |
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What I was walling in or walling out, |
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And to whom I was like to give offense. |
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Something there is that doesn't love a wall, |
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That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, |
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But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather |
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He said it for himself. I see him there |
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Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top |
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In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. |
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He moves in darkness as it seems to me |
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Not of woods only and the shade of trees. |
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He will not go behind his father's saying, |
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And he likes having thought of it so well |
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He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." |
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