“Something there is that doesn’t
love a wall,
And sends the frozen ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.”
Robert Frost, “Mending Wall”
Unusual mysticism
from this stoic poet. With its hint of magic, or even of some deeper natural
force this feels more Yeats than Frost. But Frost always had that strange
undercurrent of passion and curiosity that belies his gruff Yankee persona.
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