(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

A Time To Talk

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.

by Robert Frost

Comments (28)

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Wow...... Nice poem and very very thank you
I really love your poem, sometimes it touch my heart .......
Nice poem, I liked the words, yeah.
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