Gathering Leaves

By Robert Frost 
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?