Robert Frost

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

The Objection To Being Stepped On - Poem by Robert Frost

At the end of the row
I stepped on the toe
Of an unemployed hoe.
It rose in offense
And struck me a blow
In the seat of my sense.
It wasn't to blame
But I called it a name.
And I must say it dealt
Me a blow that I felt
Like a malice prepense.
You may call me a fool,
But was there a rule
The weapon should be
Turned into a tool?
And what do we see?
The first tool I step on
Turned into a weapon.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, March 29, 2010



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