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POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
So drunk, he disavows itWith badinage divine;So dazzling, we mistake himFor an alighting mine.
A pleader, a dissembler,An epicure, a thief,—Betimes an oratorio,An ecstasy in chief;
The Jesuit of orchards,He cheats as he enchantsOf an entire attarFor his decamping wants.
The splendor of a Burmah,The meteor of birds,Departing like a pageantOf ballads and of bards.
I never thought that Jason soughtFor any golden fleece;But then I am a rural man,With thoughts that make for peace.
But if there were a Jason,Tradition suffer meBehold his lost emolumentUpon the apple-tree.
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