I stopped by Frost's stone house today
To see what that old house would say
About a poet long revered
Who owned this lovely bit of clay

Trimmed and cut the yard stood bare
Of old and rusted farming gear
No hoe or rake or plow was seen
Sharon France not a Rockwell scene

Old Frost must  feel quite annoyed
To see his life work so employed
His home was a working farm
His family and his friends enjoyed

A sterile shrine stark and cold
No laughing children or friendly soul
No normalcy or cluttered desk
Just detritus of the broken mold

Behind a sturdy vermont barn
A pile of rocks and path well worn
Testify to the heartbreak work
Spring's fresh crop of Frost heaved stones

That is where his heart is seen
Not in some shrine and postcard scene
But a pile of stones cold and hard
He put there year by year unseen