Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Wine of Jurancon

Little sweet wine of Jurancon,        &nbsp You are dear to my memory still! With mine host and his merry song,        &nbsp Under the rose-tree I drank my fill. Twenty years after, passing that way,        &nbsp Under the trellis I found again Mine host, still sitting there au frais,        &nbsp And singing still the same refrain. The Jurancon, so fresh and bold,        &nbsp Treats me as one it used to know; Souvenirs of the days of old        &nbsp Already from the bottle flow, With glass in hand our glances met;        &nbsp We pledge, we drink. How sour it is Never Argenteuil piquette        &nbsp Was to my palate sour as this! And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;        &nbsp The self-same juice, the self-same cask! It was you, O gayety of my youth,        &nbsp That failed in the autumnal flask!