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.

Audio recordings of Robert Frost reading his poetry here.