Of The Stones Of The Place Poem

Of The Stones Of The Place Poem By Robert Frost,

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 hve
In wInd-sOlI to a depth of thIrty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as Hour 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 eohth 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.’

Of The Stones Of The Place Poem

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