Something there is that doesn't love a wall,                                           
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,                                        
And spills the upper bowlders 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 as spring mending-time we find them there.                                          
I let my neighbour 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 anouther 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 neighbours."                       
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder                                                  
If I could put a notion in his head:                                                           
"Why do they make good neighbours? 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 neighbours". 

                                                                                                   -Robert Frost