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?

Added: on September 9th, 2005 at 8:29 AM | Viewed: 12497 times | Comments (7)

Poet: Robert Frost
Poem: 37. Gathering Leaves
Volume: New Hampshire
Year: Published/Written in 1923

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