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.

                                                  --Robert Frost