The Cider Mill

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.