Rosé



A  is a type of wine that incorporates some of the colour from the grape skins, but not enough to qualify it as a red wine. It may be the oldest known type of wine, as it is the most straightforward to make with the skin contact method. The pink color can range from a pale "onionskin" orange to a vivid near-purple, depending on the grape varieties used and winemaking techniques. Usually, the wine is labelled rosé in French, Portuguese, and English-speaking countries, rosado in Spanish, or rosato in Italian.

Quotes

 * Lily on liquid roses floating— So floats yon foam o’er pink champagne— Fain would I join such pleasant boating, And prove that ruby main, And float away on wine!Those seas are dangerous, greybeards swear— Whose sea-beach is the goblet’s brim; And true it is—they drown old Care, But what care we for him,  So we but float on wine!	And true it is—they cross in pain, Who sober cross the Stygian ferry; But only make our —champagne, And we shall cross right merry,  Floating away on wine!Old ’s self shall make him mellow, Then gaily row his boat from shore; While we, and every jovial fellow, Hear—unconcerned—the oar,  That dips itself in wine!
 * John Kenyon, "Champagne Rosé" (wr. 1837; pub. 1838)


 * Praise who will the duller liquor Juice of Portugal or Spain; Fill for me with lighter—quicker— Fill for me with Rose Champagne. See the glass its foam upgiving, Creaming—beading—round the brim, Such, were old Anacreon living, Such should be the wine for him! Elixir blest! Bacchus and Flora, 'Twas He proposed—She smiled compliance— Thee—a spell for mortal sorrow, Thee devised in gay alliance. Full of the plan, they leapt delighted From leafy couch, where each reposes, And while they plied their task united, (One gave the grapes, and one the roses,) Young Love stood near, with curious eye, And heedful watched the chemic union, And smiled to think how, by and bye, The play of looks, the soul's communion, And the tied tongue's first liberty Should thrive beneath that magic essence. And what, thou glorious alchemy! What though thy primal effervescence, Like Love's, too bright—too dear to stay— Like Love's—die almost in the tasting— Yet each I snatch, as best I may; Ah! why are both so little lasting.
 * John Kenyon, "Champagne Rosé" (wr. 1818; pub. 1838)