RisqueSommelier.com

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803–1882 
  
BRING me wine, but wine which never grew  
In the belly of the grape,  
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through  
Under the Andes to the Cape,  
Suffer’d no savour of the earth to ’scape.
 
Let its grapes the morn salute  
From a nocturnal root,  
Which feels the acrid juice  
Of Styx and Erebus;  
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.   
 
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