The Old Cider Mill

While strolling through the countryside

     One bright October day

I chanced upon a cider mill,

     A building old and gray.

I stopped beneath its sloping roof

     To rest my weary feet,

Likewise to sample, if I might,

     The apple juices sweet.

It had been years since I had stood

     Beneath the old gray mill;

I could not rouse the thirst of youth,

     Nor feel the old-time thrill.

“How changed!” I said in accents sad,

     My fancies put to rout;

I simply wandered on my way –

     The mill was down and out.

Oct. 6, ‘08