A Time to Talk

    By Robert Frost

     

    When a friend calls to me from the road

    And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

    I don't stand still and look around

    On all the hills I haven't hoed,

    And shout from where I am, What is it?

    No, not as there is a time to talk.

    I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

    Blade-end up and five feet tall,

    And plod: I go up to the stone wall

    For a friendly visit.


     

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