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    North of Boston
    North of Boston
    North of Boston
    Ebook86 pages1 hour

    North of Boston

    By Robert Frost

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    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.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSkyline
    Release dateNov 2, 2017
    ISBN9788827510117
    Author

    Robert Frost

    Robert Frost (1874–1963) was a poet who was much admired for his depictions of rural life in New England, command of American colloquial speech, and realistic verse portraying ordinary people in everyday situations.

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      Book preview

      North of Boston - Robert Frost

      Hours

      The Pasture

      I'M going out to clean the pasture spring;

      I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

      (And wait to watch the water clear, I may):

      I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

      I'm going out to fetch the little calf

      That's standing by the mother. It's so young,

      It totters when she licks it with her tongue.

      I sha'n't be gone long.—You come too.

      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 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.

      He only says, Good fences make good neighbours.

      Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

      If I could put a notion in his head:

      "Why do they make good neighbours? Isn't it

      Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

      Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

      What I was walling in or walling out,

      And to whom I was like to give offence.

      Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

      That wants it down. I could say Elves" to him,

      But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

      He said it for himself. I see him there

      Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

      In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

      He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

      Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

      He will not go behind his father's saying,

      And he likes having thought of it so well

      He says again, Good fences make good neighbours.

      The Death of the Hired Man

      MARY sat musing on the lamp-flame at the table

      Waiting for Warren. When she heard his step,

      She ran on tip-toe down the darkened passage

      To meet him in the doorway with the news

      And put him on his guard. Silas is back.

      She pushed him outward with her through the door

      And shut it after her. Be kind, she said.

      She took the market things from Warren's arms

      And set them on the porch, then drew him down

      To sit beside her on the wooden steps.

      "When was I ever anything but kind to him?

      But I'll not have the fellow back," he said.

      "I told him so last haying, didn't I?

      'If he left then,' I said, 'that ended it.'

      What good is he? Who else will harbour him

      At his age for the little he can do?

      What help he is there's no depending on.

      Off he goes always when I need him most.

      'He thinks he ought to earn a little pay,

      Enough at least to buy tobacco with,

      So he won't have to beg and be beholden.'

      'All right,' I say, 'I can't afford to pay

      Any fixed wages, though I wish I could.'

      'Someone else can.' 'Then someone else will have to.'

      I shouldn't mind his bettering himself

      If that was what it was. You can be certain,

      When he begins like that, there's someone at him

      Trying to coax him off with pocket-money,—

      In haying time, when any help is scarce.

      In winter he comes back to us. I'm done."

      Sh! not so loud: he'll hear you, Mary said.

      I want him to: he'll have to soon or late.

      "He's worn out. He's asleep beside the stove.

      When I came up from Rowe's I found him here,

      Huddled against the barn-door fast asleep,

      A miserable sight, and frightening, too—

      You needn't smile—I didn't recognise him—

      I wasn't looking for him—and he's changed.

      Wait till you see."

      Where did you say he'd been?

      "He didn't say. I dragged him to the house,

      And gave him tea and tried to make him smoke.

      I tried to make him talk about his travels.

      Nothing would do: he just kept nodding off."

      What did he say? Did he say anything?

      But little.

      "Anything? Mary, confess

      He said he'd come to ditch the meadow

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