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My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
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.
My long two-pointed ladder is stuck in a tree Still reaching toward heaven, And there's a barrel I didn't fill Next to it, and there might be two or three Apples I didn't pick from a branch. But I am finished with apple-picking now. The essence of winter sleep is in the night, The smell of apples: I am getting sleepy. I cannot remove the oddness from my vision That I got from looking through a glass pane I skimmed this morning from the water trough And held it against the world of gray grass. It melted, and I let it fall and shatter. But I was already On my way to sleep before it fell, And I could sense What kind of dreams were about to come. Large apples appear and vanish, The stem end and the blossom end, And every spot of russet is clear. My foot arch not only feels the pain, It also feels the pressure of the ladder's round. I feel the ladder sway as the branches bend. And I keep hearing from the cellar bin The rumbling sound Of load after load of apples coming in. For I have had enough Of apple-picking: I am exhausted From the great harvest I wanted myself. There were countless fruits to touch, To cherish in hand, to lift down, and not let drop. For all That fell to the ground, Even if not bruised or pricked with thorns, Went straight to the cider-apple heap As if it had no value. One can see what will disturb This sleep of mine, whatever kind of sleep it is. If he were still here, The woodchuck could tell if it's like his Long sleep, as I describe its approach, Or just some human sleep.