User:Nidal kamal/sandbox

After Apple-Picking
It is a poem written by the American poet Robert Frost. It was first published in Frost's second collection, North of Boston, in 1915.

Text

 * 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.

Summary
The poem is about a man who has been picking apples all the day long up on his ladder. The narrator, the man who picks the apples, tells us upon his going to sleep, what happened during his day. He says that he left two or three barrels without filling, also he didn't pick the last two or three apples that hang on the bough of the tree because he is tired of picking them. He continues by telling us about a pane of glass he lifted from the drinking trough, and then looked through it on [the world of hoary grass] until he let it fall because it started to melt. The narrator shifts to the present and says that he can predict what his dream would look like.