Cider Time

The hills are red and golden,

     The air is crisp and clear;

To some it is the melon-

     Choliest time of year.

But to me the very dearest

     Of all the year sublime;

When voices are the clearest –

     Because it’s cider time!

The stream is white and restless,

     And laps against the shore;

The summer pledge is broken,

     Ah! broken evermore.

And I of autumn pleasures

     Could write a yard of rhyme,

But I really must leave it –

     Because it’s cider time!

Sept. 8, ‘99