Robert Frost

Over Back: Of The Stones Of The Place

I farm a pasture where the boulders lie
As touching as a basket full of eggs,
And though they’re nothing anybody begs,
I wonder if it wouldn’t signify
 
For me to send you one out where you live
In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as flour put through a baker’s sieve.
 
I’d ship a smooth one you could slap and chafe,
And set up like a statue in your yard,
An eolith palladium to guard
The West and keep the old tradition safe.
 
Carve nothing on it. You can simply say
In self-defense to quizzical inquiry:
“The portrait of the soul of my gransir Ira.
It came from where he came from anyway.”
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