Oh, for a draught of vintage! that hath been Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the fragrant liquor of the grape! Press’d from the vines of distant hills and vales, To drink amid the blooming hills and dales.
From the twilit vale, to the songs of day, Where life and love and nature wax and wane, In the golden hours we come to play, To sip the nectar from the honeyed grain.
- John Keats