One of the things we did in the States was visit Robert Frost's farm in Derry, New Hampshire, where he lived from 1900-1911.
It was just really cool to see the places that had inspired him, to walk in his bedroom, to look out the same windows he had looked out. The best part I think was the wall. There was a stone wall all around the property! And according to the tour, every spring he did go out and mend the wall with his neighbour. Although in English class we are taught that the narrator of a poem is not necessarily the poet, I feel sure that "Mending Wall" was written about these spring times with his neighbour. The neighbour's name was Napoleon Guay I think. Although some details were probably fictionalised, it was just incredible to walk along that same wall. The sad thing was that before the Robert Frost farm was bought as a state park, it was an automobile graveyard- a junkyard. It took many years of restoration, with the help of Frost's daughter Lesley Frost Ballantine to make it what it is today.
Besides "Mending Wall", many other poems by Frost were inspired by his time at this Derry farm, including "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," and "Tree at my Window."
Mending Wall by Robert Frost
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 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.
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 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
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
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,
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 neighbors.'
