“Something There Is that Doesn’t Love a Wall”
These rock walls stand in silent pose,
A passing tribute here to those
Who once did grasp with chafing hands
The stones with which to fence in lands;
Such stones which once did upward crop,
Arrayed along the clay-thick top.
Man’s walls assert the prideful plea:
“This soil, these woods belong to me;”
Who uses rocks for guarantee
To make the claims of property.
Then stacks them up with human art
To keep a neighbor’s plot apart.
Though Catskill walls abound today,
How long they’ll stand we cannot say.
How long before, by ice and frost,
The stones will sure be downward tossed,
Rejoining then the earth again.
Thus mocking vain designs of men.
The Catskill soil once lent its rock.
And, patiently, reclaims its stock.