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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409397" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Catawba Wine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">This song of mine<br>Is a Song of the Vine,<br>To be sung by the glowing embers<br>Of wayside inns,<br>When the rain begins<br>To darken the drear Novembers. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is not a song<br>Of the Scuppernong,<br>From warm Carolinian valleys,<br>Nor the Isabel<br>And the Muscadel<br>That bask in our garden alleys. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Nor the red Mustang,<br>Whose clusters hang<br>O'er the waves of the Colorado,<br>And the fiery flood<br>Of whose purple blood<br>Has a dash of Spanish bravado. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For richest and best<br>Is the wine of the West,<br>That grows by the Beautiful River;<br>Whose sweet perfume<br>Fills all the room<br>With a benison on the giver. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as hollow trees<br>Are the haunts of bees,<br>Forever going and coming;<br>So this crystal hive<br>Is all alive<br>With a swarming and buzzing and humming. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Very good in its way<br>Is the Verzenay,<br>Or the Sillery soft and creamy;<br>But Catawba wine<br>Has a taste more divine,<br>More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There grows no vine<br>By the haunted Rhine,<br>By Danube or Guadalquivir,<br>Nor on island or cape,<br>That bears such a grape<br>As grows by the Beautiful River. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Drugged is their juice<br>For foreign use,<br>When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic,<br>To rack our brains<br>With the fever pains,<br>That have driven the Old World frantic. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the sewers and sinks<br>With all such drinks,<br>And after them tumble the mixer;<br>For a poison malign<br>Is such Borgia wine,<br>Or at best but a Devil's Elixir. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">While pure as a spring<br>Is the wine I sing,<br>And to praise it, one needs but name it;<br>For Catawba wine<br>Has need of no sign,<br>No tavern-bush to proclaim it. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And this Song of the Vine,<br>This greeting of mine,<br>The winds and the birds shall deliver<br>To the Queen of the West,<br>In her garlands dressed,<br>On the banks of the Beautiful River.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Wadsworth+Longfellow">Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=409397" data-title="Catawba Wine. (Birds Of Passage. Flight The First) de Henry Wadsworth Longfellow" data-description="This song of mine
Is a Song of the Vine,
To be sung by the glowing embers
Of wayside inns,
When the rain begins
To darken the drear Novembers. 

It is not a song
Of the Scuppernong,
From warm Carolinian valleys,
Nor the Isabel
And the Muscadel
Tha..."></div>
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