After Apple-Picking" traces the journey from - conscious to subconscious. Discuss.

 After Apple-Picking" traces  the journey from ___conscious to subconscious. Discuss. 

“After Apple-Picking" is about picking apples, but with its ladders pointing "toward heaven still," with its great weariness, and with its rumination on the harvest, the coming of winter, and inhuman sleep, the reader feels certain that the poem harbous some “ulteriority.”
“Final sleep" is certainly one interpretation of the "long sleep” that the poet contrasts with human sleep. The sleep of the woodchuck is the sleep of winter, and winter, in the metaphoric language of seasons, has strong associations with death. 
Hints of winter are abundant: The scent of apples is “the essence of winter sleep”; the water in the trough froze into a “pane of glass”; the grass is “hoary"
(i.e., frosty, or Frosty). Yet is the impending death destructive or creative? The harvest of apples can be read as a harvest of any human effort—study, laying bricks, writing poetry, etc.—and this poem looks at the end of the harvest. It is concluded that poem, “After Apple-Picking” traces the journey from conscious to subconscious.

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-