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!

Whether my bark went down at sea,  
Whether she met with gales,  
Whether to isles enchanted  
She bent her docile sails;  
   
By what mystic mooring         
She is held to-day,—  
This is the errand of the eye  
Out upon the bay.

’T was such a little, little boat

 
’T was such a little, little boat  
That toddled down the bay!  
’T was such a gallant, gallant sea  
That beckoned it away!  
   
’T was such a greedy, greedy wave         
That licked it from the coast;  
Nor ever guessed the stately sails  
My little craft was lost!

ADRIFT

Adrift! A little boat adrift!
And night is coming down!
Will no one guide a little boat
Unto the nearest town?

So Sailors say - on yesterday -
Just as the dusk was brown
One little boat gave up its strife
And gurgled down and down.

So angels say - on yesterday -
Just as the dawn was red
One little boat - o'er spent with gales -
Re trimmed its masts - re decked its sails -
And shot - exultant on!

He touched me, so I live to know 
That such a day, permitted so, 
I groped upon his breast; 
It was a boundless place to me 
And silenced as the awful sea 
Put minor streams to rest.

And now I'm different from before 
As if I breathed superior air 
Or brushed a royal gown - 
My feet too that had wandered so, 
My gypsy face transfigured now 
To tenderer renown.

Into this port if I might come, 
Rebecca to Jerusalem 
Would not so ravished turn, 
Nor Persian, baffled at her shrine, 
Lift such a cruxifixal sign 
To her imperial sun.

I gave myself to him

I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way

The value might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this my purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love

Depreciates the sight;
But, 'til the merchant buy,
Still fabled, in the isles of spice
The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 'tis mutual risk,—
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon.

I'm wife

I ’M wife; I ’ve finished that,  
That other state;  
I ’m Czar, I ’m woman now:  
It ’s safer so.  
   
How odd the girl’s life looks      
Behind this soft eclipse!  
I think that earth seems so  
To those in heaven now.  
   
This being comfort, then  
That other kind was pain;      
But why compare?  
I ’m wife! stop there!

Morning

Will there really be a "Morning" ?
Is there such a thing as "Day" ?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they ?

Has it feet like Water lilies ?
Has it feathers like a Bird ?
Is it brought from famous countries
Of which I have never heard ?

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor!
Oh some Wise Man from the skies!
Please to tell a little Pilgrim
Where the place called "Morning" lies!



Emily Dickinsons' herbarium

After her death Dickinson’s sister Lavinia discovered hundreds of poems in a box.
In all she left us over 1.700 poems. Only ten of them were published in her lifetime.
Emily Dickinson now ranks with Walt Whitman as one of the two great names
in 19th century American poetry.