Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Gathering Leaves

    —by Robert Frost

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.

I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.

But the mountains I raise elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms and into my face.

I may load and unload again and again
Till I fill the whole shed, and what have I then?

Next to nothing for weight, and since they grew duller
From contact with earth, next to nothing for color.

Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop,
And who's to say where the harvest shall stop?