Lines 36-40 Summary

Lines 36-38

And if you're lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me. 

• So we're at the height of our journey. This is where things really start to get interesting. 
• First the speaker tells us that it's time to pull in our ladder—that is, of course, if you're lost enough to find ourselves. Yep, he's getting a bit new-agey on us here. 
• He metaphorically refers to the road as a ladder. The idea here is that the road has gotten us this far, but now that we've climbed to the height of our journey, it's time to leave the road. 
• Only, this journey is a solitary one—a personal one. That means that we don't want anyone following us, so we can't leave our ladder (read: road) behind. We've got to pull it in.
• If that's a bit unclear, think of a tree house. A kid climbs up there to avoid his parents and all their nagging, right? But if he leaves the rope ladder hanging, then his parents can climb right on up after him. So he hauls it up behind him, making sure that no one can follow. That's exactly what our speaker is telling us to do here. 
• And not only do we want to take away any means to follow us, we also want to hammer home the message with a big old CLOSED sign. That's right. In case there was any doubt, this is a journey we're meant to take all on our own. We've left the road, and are forging ahead into the forests and the fields. 
• In these lines, the speaker suggests that we need to break free from the roads and paths we've used to get us going on our journey. In other words, in order to really find ourselves (we know: it's a bit hokey, but go with it), we need to get lost—alone.

Lines 39-40

Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left's no bigger than a harness gall. 

• Now that we've left the road, behind, it's time to make ourselves at home. But where, exactly? It's not like there's a comfy couch to plop down on.
• The speaker does give us one detail of our whereabouts: we're near or in a field that's pretty stinkin' small. And it's the only field left. We can assume that all the other fields that once existed have long since gone fallow, and have become part of the forest once again.
• The field is so small that it's "no bigger than a harness gall." Ten bucks says you don't know what a harness gall is. As it turns out, it's another old-fashioned term. A leftover from the rural, farming days of yore. A harness gall is a kind of callous that grows when a harness chafes against an animal. Think of it as a wound or scar on the hide of a beast of burden—one that pulls a wagon or a plow. 
• Even without knowing that, the phrase "harness gall" conjures up some interesting ideas. A harness suggests responsibility and work. While gall can refer to bitterness, resentment, or rude boldness. Does that change the way we interpret these lines?
• Real talk. How can a field possibly be the size of an actual harness gall? Perhaps the speaker's being a bit hyperbolic here? 
• In any case, it's clear that things have gone a bit wonky. The question is why. We think the speaker's emphasizing just how much this once-big farm has changed with the passage of time. At one point, it probably had lots of pastures and fields. And now, all that's left is one tiny field that feels so small he's comparing it to a harness gall. Tempis fugit, Shmoopers.