Frost had it right, I suppose. Walls divide.
But something there is that needs to build one.
Maybe it’s the feel of swung steel slice-
gouging and pitching stubborn sod and soil
until a trench—two feet deep—is formed then
fed hard helpings of quarter-inch crushed stone,
on which float to be sunk sluggish base rocks
shuvslud, barred, and pinched into position;
the field stones gagged from the earth by plow blades
are glove-handled, turned, faced, then slid to fit
athwart a seam; chinked to steady, stared at
until another slab is picked and placed
upon this geometric monument
to our deep Ozymandian desire
to swallow wind, drink rain, and freeze the sun.