“It's time to walk to the cider mill
Through air like apple wine,
And watch the moon rise over the hill,
stinging and hard and fine.
It's time to cover your seed pods deep
And let them wait and be warm.
It's time to sleep the heavy sleep
That does not wake for the storm.
Winter walks from the green, streaked West
With a bag of Northern Spies,
The skins are red as a robin’s breast,
The honey chill as the skies.”
Stephen Vincent Benét, John Brown’s Body