Classic Poem

There is no cider at the Traveller's Rest;
But where's your Graves? Your Beaune? Your Beaujolais?
The Nuits you prayed for? Veuve Cliquot? Vin d' Ay? —
And vain as well the simpler suit I pressed:

" Grant me the vin-du-pays of the west,
The amber largesse of a labourer's day!"
There is no cider at the Traveller's Rest
(But where's your Graves? Your Beaune? Your Beaujolais? )
Your every plea seemed sweet as love confessed:
Pommery, Saint Emilion, Montrachet!
Lachryma Christi, Clos Vougeot, Vouvray!
Yet Mars denied each connoisseur request.
Nor has my humble homely prayer been blessed.
There is no cider at the Traveller's Rest.