. At early candle light and other poems. honest eyes of the slow-moving steersSeem to look at me now, like my own full of tears,As I smell the sweet odor, which must be, I guess,A breath of the past from the old Cider Press. O the old Cider Press on the old orchard hill!The brook was the hem and the forest the frillOf that outskirt of Eden we called the old farm,Where all knew the Lord and took hold of his Bellflower and Pippin, red Baldwin and Blush,All pressed into pulp, as the great cities crushThe sad human hearts with shame and distress,And Satan drinks the brew from the big Ci
. At early candle light and other poems. honest eyes of the slow-moving steersSeem to look at me now, like my own full of tears,As I smell the sweet odor, which must be, I guess,A breath of the past from the old Cider Press. O the old Cider Press on the old orchard hill!The brook was the hem and the forest the frillOf that outskirt of Eden we called the old farm,Where all knew the Lord and took hold of his Bellflower and Pippin, red Baldwin and Blush,All pressed into pulp, as the great cities crushThe sad human hearts with shame and distress,And Satan drinks the brew from the big Cider Press. 83 84 THE OLD CIDER PRESS O my boy, dreaming there by the dim pasture bars,With fields full of flowers and skies full of stars,Go not to the town, with its smoke and its grime;Dabble not in its dirt; do not die ere your bide where the wind wimples wide oer the wheat,Where the birds, and the bees, and the blossoms repeatYour laugh when the lass of your heart answers Yes,And you both sip the juice of the old Cider THE BOY WHO NEVER RETURNED N the glitter and glow of a daylike this—When the women are lifting theirbabes to kissThe hero who wades thro the tides of cheersOf the multitudes looking thromists of tears,As he breasted the batteries ironhissIn the deathless days—whenhigh in the sunOld Glory is riding the smil-ing skyOn the trumpets blast, O I missthe oneWho tossed to us all the fondgood-byeFrom his youthful soul, that burnedWith exultant ardor to share the strife,Saying that love was more than slow, O drum! Wail low, O fife!For the boy who never
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