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Gathering Leaves

 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?

Poem by Robert Frost
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