Cider Time

It’s cider time, sweet cider time,

     I know a mossy mill

With open roof, and beaten sides,

     Just underneath the hill.

It’s grinding now with measured tread,

     Windfalls are in their prime;

And boys with straws are there because

     It’s early cider time.

The cider pile is just outside,

     With pippins by the score;

And russets too, where we would fill

     Our pockets up galore.

The steady crunch, the dripping cheese,

     What golden thoughts for rhyme!

I’m ill at ease and hard to please,

     Along in cider time.

The evening gloom is shutting in,

     I see a misty lane;

I hear the tree toads’ sleepy cry

     Come o’er the lowland plain.

I would I were far off from here,

     I would commit a crime;

I’d steal so still into the mill,

     And have a cider time!

Aug. 8, ‘96

Pub. in N.Y.

Sunday Herald,

Sep. 20, ‘96