ROBERT FROST POEM: Gathering Leaves

Spades take up leaves
No better than spoons,
And bags full of leaves
Are light as balloons.
 
I make a great noise
Of rustling all day
Like rabbit and deer
Running away.
 
But the mountains I raise
Elude my embrace,
Flowing over my arms
And into my face.
 
I may load and unload
Again and again
Till I fill the whole shed,
And what have I then?
 
Next to nothing for weight,
And since they grew duller
From contact with earth,
Next to nothing for color.
 
Next to nothing for use,
But a crop is a crop,
And who’s to say where
The harvest shall stop?

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