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Frost's Early Poems Robert Frost
"Mending Wall"
Complete Text
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: 5
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, 10
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor 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. 15
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. 20
Oh, just another kind of outdoor 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 25
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it 30
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 offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, 35
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. 40
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 neighbors." 45
Summary
A stone wall separates the speaker's property from his neighbor's. In spring,
the two meet to walk the wall and jointly make repairs. The speaker sees no
reason for the wall to be kept--there are no cows to be contained, just apple
and pine trees. He does not believe in walls for the sake of walls. The
neighbor resorts to an old adage: "Good fences make good neighbors." The
speaker remains unconvinced and mischievously presses the neighbor to look
beyond the old-fashioned folly of such reasoning. His neighbor will not be
swayed. The speaker envisions his neighbor as a holdover from a justifiably
outmoded era, a living example of a dark-age mentality. But the neighbor simply
repeats the adage.
Form
Blank verse is the baseline meter of this poem, but few of the lines march along
in blank verse's characteristic lock-step iambs, five abreast. Frost maintains
five stressed syllables per line, but he varies the feet extensively to sustain
the
natural speech-like quality of the verse. There are no stanza breaks, obvious
end-rhymes, or rhyming patterns, but many of the end-words share an assonance
(e.g., wall, hill, balls, wall, and well
sun, thing, stone, mean, line, and
again or game, them, and him twice). Internal
rhymes, too, are subtle, slanted, and conceivably coincidental. The vocabulary is
all of a piece--no fancy words, all short (only one word, another, is of
three syllables), all conversational--and this is perhaps why the words resonate
so consummately with each other in sound and feel.
Commentary
I have a friend who, as a young girl, had to memorize this poem as punishment
for some now-forgotten misbehavior.
Forced memorization is never pleasant; still, this is a fine poem for recital.
"Mending Wall" is sonorous, homey, wry--arch,
even--yet serene; it is steeped in levels of meaning implied by its well-wrought
metaphoric suggestions. These implications
inspire numerous interpretations and make definitive readings suspect. Here are
but a few things to think about as you
reread the poem.
The image at the heart of "Mending Wall" is arresting: two men meeting on terms
of civility and neighborliness to build a barrier between them. They do so out
of tradition, out of habit. Yet the very earth conspires against them and
makes their task Sisyphean. Sisyphus, you may recall, is the figure in Greek
mythology condemned perpetually to push a boulder up a hill, only to have the
boulder roll down again. These men push boulders back on top of the wall; yet
just as inevitably, whether at the hand of hunters or sprites, or the frost and
thaw of nature's invisible hand, the boulders tumble down again. Still, the
neighbors persist. The poem, thus, seems to meditate conventionally on three
grand themes: barrier-building (segregation, in the broadest sense of the word),
the doomed nature of this enterprise, and our persistence in this activity
regardless.
But, as we so often see when we look closely at Frost's best poems, what begins
in folksy straightforwardness ends in complex ambiguity. The speaker would have
us believe that there are two types of people: those who stubbornly insist on
building superfluous walls (with clichés as their justification) and those who
would dispense with this practice--wall-builders and wall-breakers. But are
these impulses so easily separable? And what does the poem really say about the
necessity of boundaries?
The speaker may scorn his neighbor's obstinate wall-building, may observe the
activity with humorous detachment, but he himself goes to the wall at all times
of the year to mend the damage done by hunters; it is the speaker who
contacts the neighbor at wall-mending time to set the annual appointment. Which
person, then, is the real wall-builder? The speaker says he sees no need for a
wall here, but this implies that there may be a need for a wall elsewhere--
"where there are cows," for example. Yet the speaker must derive
something, some use, some satisfaction, out of the exercise of
wall-building, or why would he initiate it here? There is something in him that
does
love a wall, or at least the act of making a wall.
This wall-building act seems ancient, for it is described in ritual terms. It
involves "spells" to counteract the "elves,"
and the neighbor appears a Stone-Age savage while he hoists and transports a
boulder. Well, wall-building is ancient
and enduring--the building of the first walls, both literal and figurative,
marked the very foundation of society. Unless you
are an absolute anarchist and do not mind livestock munching your lettuce,
you probably recognize the need for literal
boundaries. Figuratively, rules and laws are walls; justice is the process
of wall-mending. The ritual of wall maintenance
highlights the dual and complementary nature of human society: The rights of
the individual (property boundaries, proper
boundaries) are affirmed through the affirmation of other individuals' rights.
And it demonstrates another benefit of
community; for this communal act, this civic "game," offers a good excuse for
the speaker to interact with his neighbor.
Wall-building is social, both in the sense of "societal" and "sociable."
What seems an act of anti-social self-confinement
can, thus, ironically, be interpreted as a great social gesture. Perhaps the
speaker does believe that good fences make
good neighbors-- for again, it is he who initiates the wall-mending.
Of course, a little bit of mutual trust, communication, and goodwill would seem
to achieve the same purpose between well-disposed neighbors--at least where
there are no cows. And the poem says it twice: "something there is that does
not love a wall." There
is some intent and value in wall-breaking, and there is some powerful tendency
toward
this destruction. Can it be simply that wall-breaking creates the conditions
that facilitate wall-building? Are the groundswells a call to community-
building--nature's nudge toward concerted action? Or are they benevolent
forces urging the demolition of traditional, small-minded boundaries? The poem
does not resolve this question, and the narrator, who speaks for the
groundswells but acts as a fence-builder, remains a contradiction.
Many of Frost's poems can be reasonably interpreted as commenting on the
creative process; "Mending Wall" is no exception. On the basic level, we can
find here a discussion of the construction-disruption duality of creativity.
Creation is a positive act--a mending or a building. Even the most
destructive-seeming creativity results in a change, the building of some new
state of being:
If you tear down an edifice, you create a new view for the folks living in the
house across the way. Yet creation is also disruptive: If nothing else, it
disrupts the status quo. Stated another way, disruption is creative: It is the
impetus that leads directly, mysteriously (as with the groundswells), to
creation. Does the stone wall embody this duality? In any case, there is
something about "walking the line"--and building it, mending it, balancing each
stone with equal parts skill and spell--that evokes the mysterious and laborious
act of making poetry.
On a level more specific to the author, the question of boundaries and their
worth is directly applicable to Frost's poetry. Barriers confine, but for some
people they also encourage freedom and productivity by offering challenging
frameworks within which to work. On principle, Frost did not write free verse.
His creative process involved engaging poetic form (the rules, tradition, and
boundaries--the walls--of the poetic world) and making it distinctly his own.
By maintaining the tradition of formal poetry in unique ways, he was
simultaneously a mender and breaker of walls.
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