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A Time to Talk

 

When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I donít stand still and look around

On all the hills I havenít 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.

 

Robert Frost


[artist]


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