The Cider-Mill
Marion Franklin Ham
Through the years I send you greeting,
Long-forgotten cider-mill;
Like an echo from my childhood,
I can hear your music still,
Creaking, creaking,
Slowly creaking,
While the horse goes round;
Keeping time, in woful squeaking,
To the laughter and the shrieking,
And the shouts of merriment ;
Till again I catch the scent
Of the russet pomace steaming ;
And again, in wistful dreaming,
I can see the mellow splendor
Of the luscious apple gleaming,
Heaped upon the swarded ground.
Oh, the amber-tinted cider!
How it bubbled, how it flowed!
In the gold of Autumn sunshine,
How it glistened, how it glowed!
How it darkled,
How it sparkled,
With a glitter as it ran!
How it gurgled, trickling, rushing,
Foaming, frothing, leaping, gushing,
As no other liquid can!
Then, in wanton idleness,
How it loitered, slipping, slipping,
While the honey-bees were sipping
Draughts of beaded nectar
From the brown drops dripping, dripping
O'er the red lips of the press!
Idle dreams ! Again I draw
Through a yellow barley-straw
Magic vintage, sweeter, rarer,
Than Olympian wine, forsooth ;
And my eager lips I steep,
Drinking long and drinking deep,
Till my shrivelled cheeks are ruddy
With the long-lost glow of youth.
Long embalmed in dusty silence,
Shrouded with the rust of years,
Old companion, here I pledge you
In a brimming cup of tears.
Vacant places,
Vanished faces,
From the shadows speak to me.
Boyish lips now mute forever,
Hands estranged, that I may never
Clasp save in eternity,
With your song has passed away
Boyhood's wealth of lusty treasure,
Sunny hours of careless pleasure;
And my heart, grown old in sorrow,
Marches to a sadder measure.
You and I have had our days.
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