Who is it that doesnt love a wall

My purpose here is not to get into the political discussion of the border wall, but for us to consider the issue of walls in general as they relate to the human condition. My travels have exposed me to many walls and have made me wonder about them.

When I was in India, I saw very poor people who had no homes building lean-tos with their scraps of wood and metal using a very fine wall that a rich family had built to surround their house as the anchor for the lean-to. I wondered what those dozens of families living in squalor, but who were pressed up against opulence, must think of their wealthy neighbors and what the wealthy family must think about their immediate neighbors using their protective wall as the core of their shanties.

This is less true in neighborhoods I saw in Brazil, where the favelas slums were built next to very wealthy neighborhoods but the wealthy people were separated from the slums by walls, gates, and guards.

It was clear that they wanted nothing to do with their less fortunate neighbors and that they lived in fear of them. But perhaps the most interesting issue of walls came to me in my multiple visits to Israel. I always ruminate on my visits to the Holy Land around this time of year, and this year particularly we find Israel in the news with Mr.

Trump wanting to move the American Embassy to Jerusalem. I will avoid commenting on the politics of this current idea. The work of hunters is another thing: 5 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, 10 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. 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 25 And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. But here there are no cows. I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. Commentary I have a friend who, as a young girl, had to memorize this poem as punishment for some now-forgotten misbehavior.

The ground bursts in a way that the boulders come spitting out from within to the outside automatically. According to the speaker, the nature breaks the wall because it does not like it to stay there.

The speaker says that they do not need the wall because their fields are of two different kinds. The speaker feels his apple trees will never get across and eat the cones under his pines, and vice versa.

The poet says the above lines to refer to a natural power which is trying to destroy the wall. Later the poet also adds that the hunters are also destroying the wall to please their yelping dogs. Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs. I don't know how to speak of anything So as to please you. But I might be taught I should suppose. I can't say I see how. A man must partly give up being a man With women-folk.

We could have some arrangement By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off Anything special you're a-mind to name. Though I don't like such things 'twixt those that love. Two that don't love can't live together without them. But two that do can't live together with them. Don't carry it to someone else this time. Tell me about it if it's something human.

Let me into your grief. I'm not so much Unlike other folks as your standing there Apart would make me out. Give me my chance. I do think, though, you overdo it a little. What was it brought you up to think it the thing To take your mother--loss of a first child So inconsolably--in the face of love.

You'd think his memory might be satisfied--' 'There you go sneering now! You make me angry. I'll come down to you. God, what a woman! And it's come to this, A man can't speak of his own child that's dead. If you had any feelings, you that dug With your own hand--how could you? I thought, Who is that man? I didn't know you. And I crept down the stairs and up the stairs To look again, and still your spade kept lifting.

Then you came in. I heard your rumbling voice Out in the kitchen, and I don't know why, But I went near to see with my own eyes. You could sit there with the stains on your shoes Of the fresh earth from your own baby's grave And talk about your everyday concerns. You had stood the spade up against the wall Outside there in the entry, for I saw it. I'm cursed. God, if I don't believe I'm cursed.

What had how long it takes a birch to rot To do with what was in the darkened parlor. You couldn't care!