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Poetry of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow



Little sweet wine of Jurancon,
  You are dear to my memory still!
With mine host and his merry song,
Under the rose-tree I drank my fill.

Twenty years after, passing that way,
  Under the trellis I found again
Mine host, still sitting there au frais,
  And singing still the same refrain.

The Jurancon, so fresh and bold,
  Treats me as one it used to know;
Souvenirs of the days of old
  Already from the bottle flow,

With glass in hand our glances met;
  We pledge, we drink.  How sour it is
Never Argenteuil piquette
  Was to my palate sour as this!

And yet the vintage was good, in sooth;
  The self-same juice, the self-same cask!
It was you, O gayety of my youth,
  That failed in the autumnal flask!