A Poem for a Thursday #197

Since yesterday I wrote about the superiority of a New England autumn over an Ohio autumn it is appropriate that I feature a New England poet today. Robert Frost seems quintessentially New England. His poetry is descriptive of a landscape I love.

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 grow 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?

Gathering Leaves
Robert Frost