After Apple Picking

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This poem by Frost follows a certain chaotic rhyme scheme, the first few lines going
and so on

I felt as if I was right beside him as he went throughout this poem.

"Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and let not fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth"

He is saying here that he is sick of his work, and has had so much that he is even dreaming about it as the seasons are changing.
Frost personifies the selection of apples as if they are at Auschwitz and it is either life or death for them; apple or cider. If they even graced the ground they were 'selected' and taken at once.

"This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
or just some human sleep."

He is asking himself if he is going into a sort of 'hybernation,' dying, or just sleeping a normal night's sleep. Either way, he is lost without his work it seems.

it seem like in this poem he is talking about the changing of seasons from fall to winter, and he has done so much of his work that he is now dreaming of it.

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