Making Cider

I saw within the wheelwright’s shed

The big round cartwheels, blue and red;

A plough with blunted share;

A blue tin jug; a broken chair;

And paint in trial patchwork square

Slapping up against the wall;

The lumber of the wheelwright’s trade,

And tools on benches neatly laid,

The brace, the adze, the awl;

And framed within the latticed-panes,

Above the cluttered sill,

Saw rooks upon the stubble hill

Seeking forgotten grains;

And all the air was sweet and shrill

With juice of apples heaped in skips,

Fermenting, rotten, soft and bruise,

And all the yard was strewn with pips,

Discarded pulp, and wrung-out ooze

That ducks with rummaging flat bill

Searched through beside the cider-press

To gobble in their greediness.

The young men strained upon the crank

To wring the last reluctant inch.

They laughed together, fair and frank,

And threw their loins across the winch.

A holiday from field and dung,

From plough and harrow, scythe and spade,

To dabble in another trade,

The crush the pippins in the slats,

And see that in the little vats

An extra pint was wring;

While round about the worthies stood

Profuse in comment, praise or blame,

Content the press should be of wood,

Advising rum, decrying wheat,

And black strong sugar makes it sweet,

But still resolved, with maundering tongue,

That cider could not be the same

As once when they were young;

But still the young contemptuous men

Laughed kindly at their old conceit,

And strained upon the crank again.

Now barrels ranged in portly line

Mature through winter’s sleep,

Aping the leisured sloths of wine

That dreams of Tiber or the Rhine,

Mellowing slow and deep;

But keen and cold the northern nights

Sharpen the quiet yard.

And sharp like no rich southern wine

The tang of cider bites;

For here the splintered stars and hard

Hold England in a frosty guard.

Orion and Pleiades

Above the wheelwright’s shed.

And Sirius resting on the trees

While all the village snores abed.