When I saw Donald Hall's photo on the cover of "Poets and Writers Magazine," I was surprised to learn that his Eagle Pond sanctuary was next door to a family estate in Bristol, New Hampshire. It is possible in reading "Eagle Pond" to vector into his location on Route 4 because he has offered such a rich sense of place that he covers his territory with precision and insight much like a surveyor or a farmer mending a stone wall with a neighbor in spring. There is the gentleman farmer about this poet and he seems steeped in the Breadloaf School tradition of Robert Frost in that his poetry is vivid, realistic and naturalistic in the same way, for example, that Seamus Heaney wants you to understand rural Ireland first-hand. Donald Hall is more than infatuated, he's in love with the sense of place which New Hampshire uniquely affords. He views many parts of this state as authentically American with roots tracing back to the Revolution among soldiers who fought and then moved north to carve out hard lives by yanking granite boulders from their fields, cutting back the woods and farming. He's right: you need to be a hardy soul to persevere in the winters of deep snow and 30 below zero wind chills. He is sensitive to the history of the place and the contributions that past generations have made and upon whose shoulders he now stands. This is an erudite soul: Harvard, Oxford, Stanford and yet he eschews the wealth and privilege normally associated with such elite bastions of learning. This is a Poet Laureate of the Common Man with a Walt Whitman face like the Old Man of the Mountain: the language is clear, precise, inspired and lyrical. There is definitely redundancy among the essays, which may require some patience, but I preferred to view them as leitmotifs, which repeat for emphasis and improvisation like a jazz standard. I would have edited this work differently to eliminate some of the redundancies of stand-alone pieces combined into a single anthology but so what? Hall complains a great deal about Flatlanders, who drive their BMWs up to the country when the weather is fair to escape the heat and complexity of life in the big city in Boston and New York during July and August, and to ski at Ragged Mountain during winter holidays. Yet Hall is a Flatlander whose roots spring north, leaning toward the light, from Hamden, CT, near New Haven. He has a great deal to say about Woodstock, Vermont, of which he is not an admirer and about developers who build condos after tearing down what is ancient and, therefore, authentic in New England in order to erect pseudo-Yankee retirement dwellings for those who come from away and don't seem to know any better. I was surprised to hear a Poet Laureate badmouth his next door New England neighbors with such vehemence but there it was in print for all the world to see. Donald Hall wants you to know what it means to live authentically in New Hampshire and what it's like to attend Old Home Week and Town Meetings and meet at the Grange. He wants you to know about the railroad, which is no longer there, and what it means to suffer as a long-time Red Sox fan even among the greatness of Ted Williams, Jackie Jenson and Carl Yazstremski. The net effect of the writing is that he presents a quaint and disappearing provincial view of old Yankee New Hampshire, mournful for its passing as its past was so rich and quaint and authentic. The most intriguing innovation in this writing appeared in his chapter entitled "Fifty People Talking" which delivers a few sentences of narrative spoken in their natural dialect about their quotidian lives near Eagle Pond in Danbury, Andover, Wilmot Flats, New London and Bristol. This is genuinely inspired writing as one perceives in the text and context of the pure narrative the real authenticity that he seeks all along in "Eagle Pond." William Gaddis took a similar approach in his genius work, "JR," which helped him to win a couple of National Book Awards. He writes about typically New England subjects such as black flies, maple sugar season, blizzards, stone walls, the American Revolution and Civil War, rural Republican tradition, clearing the land, keeping up a farm house, progress or the lack thereof, the seasons, especially autumn and winter, city folks, the Red Sox, church, Yankee history, relics of bygone days, cellar holes, his dog, Gus, local haunts for breakfast, Mt. Kearsage and Ragged Mountain, back roads, newspaper delivery, Yankee thrift and ingenuity, the lengths to which forefathers went to survive self-reliantly, surveying land by compass, gathering hay and everyday conversations with neighbors. The net effect of this book is to give one a strong, positive sense of place about Eagle Pond in New Hampshire and Hall accomplishes this feat admirably just as Frost and Heaney do in their poetry and as Faulkner did in his fiction. If you ever wondered what it's like to live as a rugged individualist in the woods of New England, then read Thoreau, Robert Frost and Donald Hall. "Eagle Pond" is a beautiful book and only a great writer could have crafted it so nobly and with such a rich sensibility for a place where authentic old Yankee America suffers to endure.