I saw the mending wall this morning–
saw it, mended by the glass of a stream,
supine. And too the monocled gaze of sun
what tumbled down in shutes of bedazzled
green. There were beside them, stretching,
frolicking, barely keeping still some dozen infant pines too eager, shy
with needled breaks clutching downs of dew—
And the dolly wigs of hay bales stacked in curly bundles–the aristocracy of fields.
Neighbors saw I none.