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