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Rotting fallen apples. Great for Robert Frost poem: After Apple-Picking<br />
BY ROBERT FROST<br />
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree<br />
Toward heaven still,<br />
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill<br />
Beside it, and there may be two or three<br />
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.<br />
But I am done with apple-picking now.<br />
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,<br />
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.<br />
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight<br />
I got from looking through a pane of glass<br />
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough<br />
And held against the world of hoary grass.<br />
It melted, and I let it fall and break.<br />
But I was well<br />
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,<br />
And I could tell<br />
What form my dreaming was about to take.<br />
Magnified apples appear and disappear,<br />
Stem end and blossom end,<br />
And every fleck of russet showing clear.<br />
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,<br />
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.<br />
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.<br />
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin<br />
The rumbling sound<br />
Of load on load of apples coming in.<br />
For I have had too much<br />
Of apple-picking: I am overtired<br />
Of the great harvest I myself desired.<br />
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,<br />
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.<br />
For all<br />
That struck the earth,<br />
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,<br />
Went surely to the cider-apple heap<br />
As of no worth.<br />
One can see what will trouble<br />
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.<br />
Were he not gone,<br />
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his<br />
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,<br />
Or just some human sleep.