July Poetry

I taste a liquor never brewed 

I taste a liquor never brewed, 
From tankards scooped in pearl; 
Not all the vats upon the Rhine 
Yield 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 bee 
Out 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, 1860