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–thro endless summer days–From inns of Molten Blue–When the “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 Tippler–Leaning against the–Sun!
Emily Dickinson 1861