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. 

At Apple-Pickin' Time

At Apple-Pickin' Time.

by Mary A. Roberts

When a frosty carpet sparkles in the hollow 'neath the hill. 

And the night-chilled earth is waking from the dawning white and still, 

Oh, the air is crisp and bracing as a breeze from o'er the brine, 

Full of Nature's pungent nectar at apple-pickin' time! 

The leaves are golden yellow, the nuts are turning brown, 

And milkweed seeds sail weightless on their air-ships' silky down; 

Bold spiders, daring aeronauts, in filmy fastness float, 

A cobweb cable streaming from every wind-tossed boat; 

The air from purple vintage is heavy with new wine, 

Farewell madrigals the blackbirds sing at apple-pickin' time. 

Oh, the wealth of bearing orchards ! Oh, Hesperides' globes of gold! 

And apples red as rubies that Autumn's full hands hold! 

Fragrant as the fabled attar is the Pippin in its prime; 

Short-lived Autumn is a prodigal at apple-pickin' time.

The Apple Rhyme

THE APPLE RHYME
Author Unknown
In my garden grows a tree
Of apple-blossom, where for me
A blackbird perches every day, 

Sings his song and flies away.
So since fairies make for birds
Music out of fairy words,
I have learned from it a rhyme
For folk to sing at apple-time,
Which (if you live where apples grow),
You'll find a useful thing to know.


Apple Time
Author Unknown
Shower-time, flower-time, earth is new and fair;
May-time, hay-time, blossoms everywhere;
Nest-time, best time, days have longer grown;
Leaf-time, brief time, make it all your own;
Berry-time, cherry-time, songs of bird and bee;
But, of all the happy times, apple-time for me.
Wheat-time, sweet time, in the closing year;
Sheaf-time, leaf-time, now will disappear;
Yellow ones and mellow ones, dropping from the tree;
Rusty Coats and Pippins, apple-time for me.


In Apple-Time
Author Unknown
When the red is on the apple,
And the apple 's on the tree,
When Myrtilla with her basket
Flings a saucy glance at me,
All the joys of all the seasons
Ripen in a rosy glee,
When the red is on the apple,
And the apple 's on the tree.

Apple Time

APPLE TIME. 

By George Cooper

Come and see the chubby faces 

Peep from under lifted leaves 

Which the noisy breeze displaces 

What a jolly tune it weaves! 

Crimson faces, scarlet faces, 

Faces green, and gold, and brown; 

For a troop of tricksy goblins 

Only last night wandered down, 

In apple-time! 

How the rough old Boughs are tossing 

In the cool and crispy air! 

Do you hear the children crossing 

O'er the meadows, here and there? 

Goblin faces, peeping, hiding 

Seem to greet them every one; 

And the orchard-rows are ringing 

With the frolic and the fun, 

In apple-time! 

Oh, the little hands that dip in 

Baskets shallow, baskets deep, 

Where the Russet and the Pippin 

Mingle in a shining heap! 

Long before the sunset's glory 

Orchard boughs are lone and bare; 

But another golden Autumn 

Sees the goblin faces there, 

In apple-time!  

The Planting Of The Apple Tree

The Planting Of The Apple Tree

by William Cullen Bryant

Come, let us plant the apple-tree!

Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;

Wide let its hollow bed be made;

There gently lay the roots, and there

Sift the dark mold with kindly care,

And press it o'er them tenderly,

As round the sleeping infant's feet

We softly fold the cradle-sheet;

So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Buds which the breath of summer days

Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,

Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;

We plant upon the sunny lea

A shadow for the noontide hour,

A shelter from the summer shower,

When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree ?

Sweets for a hundred flowery springs

To load the May-wind's restless wings,

When from the orchard-row he pours

Its fragrance through our open doors;

A world of blossoms for the bee,

Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,

For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,

We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?

Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,

And redden in the August noon,

And drop when gentle airs come by.

That fan the blue September sky;

While children, wild with noisy glee,

Shall scent their fragrance as they pass

And search for them the tufted grass

At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when above this apple tree

The winter stars are quivering bright.

And winds go howling through the night,

Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth.

Shall peel its fruit by the cottage hearth;

And guests in prouder homes shall see,

Heaped with the orange and the grape.

As fair as they in tint and shape.

The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree,

Winds, and our flag of stripe and star,

Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,

Where men shall wonder at the view,

And ask in what fair groves they grew:

And they who roam beyond the sea

Shall think of childhood's careless day,

And long hours passed in summer play

In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree

A broader flush of roseate bloom,

A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,

And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower.

The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.

The years shall come and pass; but we

Shall hear no longer, where we lie,

The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,

In the boughs of the apple-tree.

But time shall waste this apple-tree.

Oh, when its aged branches throw

Thin shadows on the ground below,

Shall fraud and force and iron will

Oppress the weak and helpless still ?

What shall the task of mercy be.

Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears

Of those who live when length of years

Is wasting this apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"

The children of that distant day

Thus to some aged man shall say;

And, gazing on its mossy stem,

The gray-haired man shall answer them:

"A poet of the land was he,

Born in the rude but good old times;

'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes

On planting the apple-tree."

A Summer Snowstorm!

A SUMMER SNOW STORM

 

It's snowing hard as it can snow

The ground is almost white

And all our pretty orchard grass 

Is hidden out of sight.

The wind is blowing from the south,

And coming good and strong,

You'd never think a southern wind

Would bring the snow along!

The sun is shining warm and bright

The flowers bloom in throngs

The birds are flying to and fro,

And singing happy songs.

And if upon their feathers soft

The snowy flakes should fall,

They shake them off and sing some more,

And never mind at all!

The flowers, too, don't care a bit,

It only makes them grow

Because, you see, this summer storm

Is apple-blossom snow!

By E. S. T.

Little Apple Rhymes and Poems

A Apple Pie.

B bit it.

C cut it.

D dealt it. 

E eat it.

F fought for it.

G got it. 

H hid it.

J joined it.

K kept it.

L longed for it.

M mourned for it.

N nodded at it. 

O opened it.

P peeped at it.

Q quartered it.

R ran for it.

S stole it.

T took it. 

V viewed it.

W wanted it.

X Y Z & 

Amperse and 

All wished for 

A piece in hand.

Apple Gathering by Georgina Rossetti

    I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree
        And wore them all that evening in my hair:
    Then in due season when I went to see
            I found no apples there.

    With dangling basket all along the grass
        As I had come I went the selfsame track:
    My neighbours mocked me while they saw me pass
            So empty-handed back.

    Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,
        Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;
    Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,
            Their mother's home was near.

    Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,
        A stronger hand than hers helped it along;
    A voice talked with her through the shadows cool
            More sweet to me than song.

    Ah Willie, Willie, was my love less worth
        Than apples with their green leaves piled above?
    I counted rosiest apples on the earth
            Of far less worth than love.

    So once it was with me you stooped to talk
        Laughing and listening in this very lane:
    To think that by this way we used to walk
            We shall not walk again!

    I let my neighbours pass me, ones and twos
        And groups; the latest said the night grew chill,
    And hastened: but I loitered, while the dews
            Fell fast I loitered still.

Jesus Christ the Apple Tree, 1803

The tree of life my soul hath seen,
Laden with fruit, and always green;
The trees of nature fruitless be,
Compar'd with Christ the Appletree.

This beauty doth all things excel,
By faith I know, but ne'er can tell
The glory which I now can see,
In Jesus Christ the Appletree.

For happiness I long have sought,
And pleasure dearly I have bought;
I miss'd of all; but now I see
'Tis found in Christ the Appletree.

I'm weary'd with my former toil—
Here I will sit and rest awhile,
Under the shadow I will be,
Of Jesus Christ the Appletree.

With great delight I'll make my stay,
There's none shall fright my soul away;
Among the sons of men I see
There's none like Christ the Appletree.

I'll sit and eat this fruit divine,
It cheers my heart like spirit'al wine;
And now this fruit is sweet to me,
That grows on Christ the Appletree.

This fruit doth make my soul to thrive,
It keeps my dying faith alive;
Which makes my soul in haste to be
With Jesus Christ the Appletree.


Two Little Apples by Anonymous
Two little apples hanging on a tree,
Two little apples smiling at me.
I shook that tree as hard as I could.
Down came the apples, Mm! Mm! Good!