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| Robert Frost, around year 1910 |
After Apple-Picking
by Robert Frost, from the collection
North of Boston, 1915
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.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
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.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let 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.
One can see what will trouble
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.
For an analysis of the poem's structure, metrics and form, I will refer my amiable readers to a great contribution by PoemShape.
Dopo la Raccolta delle Mele
Robert Frost, da
North of Boston, 1915
La mia lunga scala a due punte s'innalza fra un albero
Quasi verso i cieli,
E c'è un cesto che non ho riempito
Giusto accanto, e ci sono forse due o tre
Mele che non ho colto su un qualche ramo.
Ma ho finito di cogliere mele adesso.
Essenza di sonno invernale pervade la notte,
L'odore di mele: mi sto assopendo.
Non posso distogliere dalla mia vista la stranezza
Venuta dal guardare attraverso un vetro
Che ho preso stamane dall' abbeveratorio
E tenuto contro il mondo d'erba e brina.
S'è sciolto, e io l'ho lasciato cadere e rompersi.
Ma stavo bene
Sul punto di dormire prima che cadesse,
E pareva sapessi
Che forme avrebbe preso il mio sognare.
Mele ingigantite appaiono e scompaiono,
La parte del picciolo e la parte del fiore,
Ed ogni macchiolina rossiccia ben definita.
L'incavo del mio piede non solo duole,
Ma sente ancora la pressione del piolo.
Sento l'oscillare della scala al curvarsi del ramo.
E continuo a udire dal cassone della cantina
Il suono rimbombante
di carichi e carichi di mele che si riversano.
Poiché ne ho abbastanza
Di raccoglier mele: mi sono stancato troppo
Del grande raccolto che io stesso avevo desiderato.
V'erano decine di migliaia di frutti da toccare,
accudire nella mano, staccare, a non lasciar cadere.
Poiché quelle
Che toccavano terra,
Non importa se non ammaccate o ricoperte di sporco,
Finivano di sicuro nel cumulo per fare il sidro
Come se non avessero più valore.
Si può ben vedere cosa disturberà
Questo mio sonno, qualunque esso sia.
Se non se ne fosse andata,
La marmotta potrebbe dire se è cosí il suo
Lungo sonno, como descrivo il suo approssimarsi,
O semplicemente un po' di umano sonno.
Versione in italiano a cura di LiteraryJoint
After Apple-Picking
by
Robert Frost
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.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
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.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let 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.
One can see what will trouble
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19975#sthash.FlT4fMlY.dpuf
After Apple-Picking
by
Robert Frost
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.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
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.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let 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.
One can see what will trouble
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.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/19975#sthash.FlT4fMlY.dpuf
