Of the Stones of the Place

I farm a pasture where the boulders lie
As touching as a basketful 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 live
In wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet,
And every acre good enough to eat,
As fine as flour 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 eolith 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."

-Robert Frost


You poetry readers are all familiar with that sensation that a poem was written just for or about you. This one is mine. I'm the "you" in this poem who works in "wind-soil to a depth of thirty feet, and every acre good enough to eat," and I had a "Gransir Ira" who farmed "a pasture where the boulders lie." As for the shipping of an "eolith palladium to guard The West and keep the old tradition safe," Frost did that for us with this poem.