O Wine! Blessed tender orb of the vine!
Your sweet bouquets explode upon my tongue;
I would travel through oceans to call you mine.
Songs the Greeks and Californians have sung
of your merits through all ages of time.
Not cherry, not strawberry, not red pome;
To the radiant grape, these fruits are dead.
Nor pomegranate, nor rhubarb, nor lime;
Nothing! The grape was glory of Rome!
But, make not my mistake: go white, not red!