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 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 rather make it a play of words;
I can tell where it is because the fell of it
Employs a more human dimensional mark;
I caution how it ought to be fixed.

Before I built—
I was very light-headed —
He tends to say that good fences make good neighbors.

But the wall of nature cannot fold the field,
For sure it plays the tension of the light.
And when I say that too, I must consider it.

I could think of reaching for the other door
Just in time to say this more than ever;
Our shot at letting grass and growth begin;
While we may riddle every inch of earth back
Into attention, those who have grown among rest
Are just the earth to break, their joy is grief;
All we need to do is love it inside out,
To take the fences as something alive.

• Robert Frost