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