spades take up leaves
no better than spoons
and bags full of leaves
are light as baloons.

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
until 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 is to say
where the harvest shall stop?

robert frost