Mending Wall

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 such as we see on a summer’s day.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and found them there,
A field stone piled and thrown on tilted stone,
The gaps they themselves had left to make a prey
To be too wide for the passing of the cart.
But when they are all gotten rid of
And the frost, there is no one makes a gap,
Only something in the spring, and I repeat
Wall said to me—

‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’

I could say ‘Elves’ to explain it still.
Or none perhaps.
But I’d rather put some meaning on the side
Of malice than of ignorance.
Let us assume for the mere sake of argument
That the wall is what the spring is,
That is, a thing that is not wanted.
The earth is made for it, and so is the spring.
I have to use a spell to get the new stones
To fit the gaps that fall.
My neighbor too,
He also is annoyed.
His fence is down.
He sends us word to come and fix his fence;
I answer him: ‘I have no fence to mend,
That is no part of my farm.’
He will not answer me:
‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’

He walks the line between the pines and willows
With a stone-gravel stick in each hand,
In spreading-out grass on each side of him
Is piled, and he goes on to stop the breaches
With rising stones that come to hand.
He will not look beyond his yards,
And makes no sign with hand or eye.
The work of hunters is another kind:
I have come after them and found them there.
But his are other gaps.
He will not look beyond his yards,
And makes no sign with hand or eye
While I repeat to him:
‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’