Catawba Wine Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

                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
        That bask in our garden alleys.

                  Nor the red Mustang,
                  Whose clusters hang
        O'er the waves of the Colorado,
                  And the fiery flood
                  Of whose purple blood
        Has a dash of Spanish bravado.

                  For richest and best
                  Is the wine of the West,
        That grows by the Beautiful River;
                  Whose sweet perfume
                  Fills all the room
        With a benison on the giver.