1800 WALNUT: May 2009

5.28.2009

5.26.2009

ROBERT FROST . AFTER APPLE PICKING

    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.
   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 sight
   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.
   It melted, and I let it fall and break.
   But I was well
   Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
   And I could tell
   What 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 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.
   There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
   Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
   For all
   That struck the earth,
   No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
   Went surely to the cider-apple heap
   As of no worth.
   One can see what will trouble
   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.