Friday, October 15, 2010

"Falling . . . "



Gathering Leaves
by Robert Frost




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?



Unpacking tweed,
Scot

(interior images from Elle Decor.  Design by Michael Smith)