AFTER APPLE-PICKINGBy Robert FrostMY long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a treeToward heaven still,And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fillBeside it, and there may be two or threeApples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Essence of winter sleep is on the night,The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

I cannot rub the strangeness from my sightI got from looking through a pane of glassI skimmed this morning from the drinking troughAnd held against the world of hoary grass.

It melted, and I let it fall and break.

But I was wellUpon my way to sleep before it fell,And I could tellWhat form my dreaming was about to take.

Magnified apples appear and disappear,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.

I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar binThe rumbling soundOf load on load of apples coming in.

For I have had too muchOf apple-picking: I am overtiredOf the great harvest I myself desired.

There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.

For allThat struck the earth,No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,Went surely to the cider-apple heapAs of no worth.

One can see what will troubleThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.

Were he not gone,The woodchuck could say whether it’s like hisLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,Or just some human sleep.

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