Try your native vines,
And in some thousand years you _may_ have wines;
Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins,
And want of ancestral bins
That saved for evenings round the polished board
Old lava fires, the sun-steeped hillside's hoard.
And in some thousand years you _may_ have wines;
Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins,
And want of ancestral bins
That saved for evenings round the polished board
Old lava fires, the sun-steeped hillside's hoard.
James Russell Lowell
