THE first fire since the summer is lit, and is smoking into the room: The sun-rays thread it through, like woof-lines in a loom. Sparrows spurt from the hedge, whom misgivings appal That winter did not leave last year for ever, after all. Like shock-headed urchins, spiny-haired, Stand pollard willows, their twigs just bared. Who is this coming with pondering pace, Black and ruddy, with white embossed, His eyes being black, and ruddy his face, And the marge of his hair like morning frost? It's the cider-maker, And appletree-shaker, And behind him on wheels, in readiness, His mill, and tubs, and vat, and press. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COLD NIGHT by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN by GEORGE CANNING CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR by ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND SONG OF THE PILGRIMS [SEPTEMBER 16, 1620] by THOMAS COGSWELL UPHAM TO A DISTANT FRIEND by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION: BOOK 1 by MARK AKENSIDE |