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 rows 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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