after apple picking by robert frost my long two-pointed ladders sticking through a tree toward heaven still and there is 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 with every fleck of russet showing clear my instep arch not only keeps the ache it keeps the pressure of the 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 cherished 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