The wall is not a wall at all.
It’s the farmer’s labor
To **** the land of stone,
To stack at the edges
Out of the way of plow and hoof.

It is not to be alone
That he has labored so.
He is not aloof.
He hath not airs and graces.
No man is more soiled than he.

So let him be. At the end of his days
He stands with weary limbs
Bent by toil and wrought by strain
As clouds roll into view black
And swollen with a summer’s rain.