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This episode is brought to you by the Breath of the Wind. Tonight we'll read poems from north of Boston, a collection from Robert Frost, first published in 1914. Most of the poems resemble short dramas or dialogues. It is also called the Book of People, because most of the poems deal with New England themes and Yankee farmers. Known for his realistic depictions of rural life and his command of American colloquial speech, Robert Frost frequently wrote about settings from

rural life in New England in the early 20th century using them to examine

complex social and philosophical themes frequently honored during his lifetime

Frost is the only poet to receive four Pulitzer prizes for poetry. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now, take a few deep breaths.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel.

I'm going to go back to the hotel. Mending wall. 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 too can pass a breast. 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 into whom I was like to give a fence. 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 in the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father saying and he likes having thought of it so well. He says again, good fences make good neighbors.

Blueberries, you ought to have seen what I saw on my way to the village through Mortensen's pasture today. Blueberry says big is the end of your thumb.

Real sky blue and heavy and ready to drum, in the cavernous pale of the first one to come, and all ripe together not some of them green, and some of them ripe he ought to have seen. I don't know what part of the pasture you mean. You know where they cut off the woods. Let me see. It was two years ago, or no. Can it be? No longer than that. And the following fall. The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.

Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.

That's always the way with the blueberries though.

There may not have been the ghost of a sign of them anywhere under the shade of the pine.

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