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My long two-pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree Toward heaven still, And there’s a barrel that I didn’t fill Beside it, and there may be two or three Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough. But I am done with apple-picking now.
But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. Magnified apples appear and disappear, Stem end and blossom end, And every fleck of russet showing clear.
For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired.
The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep.
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