by Robert Frost
Spades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons.
I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away.
But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face.
I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.But a crop is a crop,And who's to say whereThe harvest shall stop?
Spades take up leavesNo better than spoons,And bags full of leavesAre light as balloons.
I make a great noiseOf rustling all dayLike rabbit and deerRunning away.
But the mountains I raiseElude my embrace,Flowing over my armsAnd into my face.
I may load and unloadAgain and againTill I fill the whole shed,And what have I then?
Next to nothing for weight,And since they grew dullerFrom contact with earth,Next to nothing for color.
Next to nothing for use.But a crop is a crop,And who's to say whereThe harvest shall stop?
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