A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Wine of Jurançon (Charles Coran)

by Charles Coran

THE WINE OF JURANÇON.

CHARLES CORAN.

Small wine loved, of Jurançon,
Fresh thou art in memory!
Sang mine host;—we drank anon,
Sheltered by a flowering tree.

Passing after twenty years,
Good mine host I found again,
On the same spot, and with tears
Heard once more the old refrain.

Welcomed me with warmth the wine,
As a friend of yesterday;
Shone past times in light divine,
Mirrored in the bottles gay.

Glass in hand, we cares forget,
Clink, clink, clink, but as we pledge—
Vinegar or else piquette—
Faugh! To set one's teeth on edge.

Good the growth? Why—how's the thing?
Same the wine, the very tun!
Thou, O brightness of my spring,
Vanished,—all the taste was gone.