apple picking
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My long two- pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
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with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep
is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
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I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning
from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
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But I was well
Upon my way to sleep
before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
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Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
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And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
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fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
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That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
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This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say
whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Robert Frost
Labels: amphora, edvard munch, eugene grasset, Komeno Hakusui, mary cassatt, paul ranson, pierre bonnard, poetry, Robert Frost