After Apple Picking
apple
apple
apple
Beside it,
and there may be
two or three
Essence of winter
sleep is on
the night,
The scent of
I am drowsing off.
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.