There's a region in France, a land known by few,

On the German border, ,just a holler or two.

It's a secret to keep, this nature-filled place.

This valley of vineyards is called Alsace.

We followed the path, the Route des Vins,
To the charming country towns and the churches within;

Past postcard scenes at neatly-kempt corners,
And half-timbered homes with flower-decked dormers.

Salmon-colored houses, and restaurants shaded blue;
The colors were startling, yet picturesque, too.

We visited in autumn, that time of year
The leaves bid au revoir, then politely disappear.

The golden vines, lined straight as a rod,
Hardly dulled by the rain, as if sheltered by God.

They flaunted their beauty in yellows and soft reds
And blanketed the hills like king-sized beds.

In every direction and across every field,
Awaiting the harvest of the fruit they yield.

We hope to return there, our steps to retrace;
To recapture our hearts from the gentle Alsace.