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.

But neighbors?

Neighbors saw I none.