POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON
XX
I TASTE a liquor never brewed,From tankards scooped in pearl;Not all the vats upon the RhineYield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I,And debauchee of dew,Reeling, through endless summer days,From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken beeOut of the foxglove’s door,When butterflies renounce their drams,I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats,And saints to windows run,To see the little tipplerLeaning against the sun!
XXI
HE ate and drank the precious words,His spirit grew robust;He knew no more that he was poor.Nor that his frame was dust.He danced along the dingy days,And this bequest of wingsWas but a book. What libertyA loosened spirit brings!
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