The Cow in Apple Time

by Robert Frost

　　

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Something inspires the only cow of lateTo make no more of a wall than an open gate,And think no more of wall-builders than fools.Her face is flecked with pomace and she droolsA cider syrup. Having tasted fruit,She scorns a pasture withering to the root.She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweetenThe windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten.She leaves them bitten when she has to fly.She bellows on a knoll against the sky.Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.

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