After Apple-Picking 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 shake the shimmer of this sight.

The bounce of apples I didn’t pick is growing in
My blood to a pleasant, ear-popping drowse.

I am done with apple-picking now, For I have all I need to carry past
To another world beyond this one.
What still remains is the scent of apples
And the memory of the boughs I bent,
The feeling of the ground that yielded.
What still remains is the wisdom of harvest:
The accumulation of empties which show that
Half of the apple belonged to the tree,
The half I didn’t harvest weighed, the bearded
Hearts of flowers and their gone-away scent;
I am finished with apple-picking now.

• Robert Frost