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Beau
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The Wine Was Sweeter Then
The wine was sweeter yesterday,
The tables of the street cafe
Held Pernod and Grand Marnier;
The syrup of the summer day,
Untainted by the clink of ice
But side by side with scent of spice
Came poems from the flashing pen.
The wine was sweeter then.
When skies were bluer yesterday,
The longer summers went their way
From year to year and day to day;
To sing a drunken roundelay
On nights it never seemed to rain;
To sing the poem once again
With gaiety remembering when
The skies were bluer then.
The firelight flickers playing games
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With pine-log perfume in the flames
Went dancing on the window panes
As winter's daylight slowly wanes.
And shadows that are soft and warm
Kept flickering as they performed
Mazurkas in the winter's night.
The fire flickers bright.
The memories have never gone,
For something somewhere lingers on
That conjured by nostalgia's wand
Comes silently from far beyond;
From pastures where the grass grew high
And green within the memories eye.
The memories do themselves fulfil.
The wine is sweeter still.
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