Posted On: Wednesday - February 28th 2018 3:57PM MST
In Topics:   Immigration Stupidity  Music  Poetic Stupidity
It's a line from the Robert Frost poem foreshadowed here and introducing a new topic key, Poetic Stupidity (heh!).
Here's the poem from the famous New England poet, Mr. Robert Frost (1874-1963):
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 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 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
‘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,
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 neighbors.'
 - See, he's just one of those outside agitators. Don't get me wrong now, there's good agitation and bad agitation. Buddy, if you are not sure why the wall should be built, you don't need to help. Let your neighbor do it.
 - Peak Stupidity does not specialize in English lit-tre-choor, but I'm pretty sure, that by "elves", Mr. Frost meant "Globalists". He hints at it by "not elves exactly".
 - There's young Mr. Frost, not succesful as a farmer (per wiki), but still apparently wiser than his older neighbor. Did those New Englanders start the cntrl-left crap earlier than I thought? This poem was written just over 100 years ago, as Mr. Frost tried to farm (I'm sure it wasn't easy in New England) in Derry, New Hampshire, just across the line from Massachusetts, his teen and young adult home. I'm starting to wonder if the folks in New Hampshire started the term "Masshole" right about that time....
Good fences DO make good neigbors. Why didn't you nicely ask your neighbor why that is so, Mr. Frost? Too stuck up, because you attended Haaved, is it? Man, you think the SJW's are a new thing, but these types come up in every generation. It's just more of a problem nowadays because people are not allowed to kick their asses as much. (read about Anarcho-tyranny)
Who would have the sheer audacity to "fisk" the writings of Robert Frost?! (The reader may ask.) Two thumbs say Peak Stupidity does. Sure, the guy can write a mean poem - I can't argue with that. However the cntrl-left idiocy and know-it-all-ness comes out when you dig a bit. I wonder if Mr. Frost, who died in 1963, just before the Hart-Cellar/U-boat-commander Kennedy bill to replace the American people was passed by Congress, understood anything about walls by that time.
Another thing - those stone walls are just beautiful. I don't think the treehugger crowd would knock them (over), even. If it's too much damn work, rent a track-hoe. This isn't 1914, and we ain't in Derry, New Hampshire. BUILD! THE! WALL!
The picture up top and the Robert Frost remind me of another poet of sorts, Mr. Joe Walsh, and his 1973 classic rock song called "Meadows":
I'm out here in the meadow
part of an old stone wall.
Stand here because he said so
waitin' around to fall.
Hey, I don't know what to think of these lyrics either, but, you can't expect much meaning out of an album entitled The Smoker you Drink, the Player you Get, can you now?