I saw within the wheelwright’s
The big round cartwheels, blue and red;
A plough with blunted share;
A blue tin jug; a broken chair;
And paint in trial patchwork
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
Seeking forgotten grains;
And all the air was sweet and
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
That ducks with rummaging flat
Searched through beside the
To gobble in their greediness.
The young men strained upon the
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
An extra pint was wring;
While round about the worthies
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
As once when they were young;
But still the young contemptuous
Laughed kindly at their old conceit,
And strained upon the crank again.
Now barrels ranged in portly
Mature through winter’s sleep,
Aping the leisured sloths of
That dreams of Tiber or the Rhine,
Mellowing slow and deep;
But keen and cold the northern
Sharpen the quiet yard.
And sharp like no rich southern
The tang of cider bites;
For here the splintered stars and
Hold England in a frosty guard.
Orion and
Above the wheelwright’s shed.
And Sirius resting on the
While all the village snores abed.
