After Apple Picking
by Robert Frost
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 maybe 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.
As featured onThe Daily Gardener podcast:
Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
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