Cider and Apples
Cider and apples, sweet cider! I hear his mellow, mournful call
Come drifting through the mist to Wheeler Hall.
And peering from my window now I see A cider barrel tilted rakishly, While heaped beside it on the wagon floor Are piles of apples from October's store.
And all about mid banging doors and windows Comes the shout,
Old John, the cider man, is here! Bring out The Jug your turn to pay.
I bought a gallon only yesterday.
A clink of coins Hold up the jug! The funnel quick! It's spilling on the ground.
A rush of feet, and then a sound, The liquid murmur of chill cider flowing
Like October winds through upland orchards blowing.
At last the cider man is on his way, His horse with rough, unshodden feet
Goes clumping down the elm-lined street, And white as clouds in the morning sky
He sees Old Dartmouth Row go by.
His voice grows fainter, and through the Mist now lifting,
Crimson and gold about his wagon drifting Are leaves of elm and maple floating down To make a winter rug for Dartmouth town.
Old John and all the beauty of that Indian Summer day Are gone to the far land Where all our memories stray, come October and I pass Wheeler Hall, Cider and apples, sweet cider! I always hear him call.
