I taste a liquor never brewed
From tankards scooped in pearl.
Not all the Frankfort berries
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
From manzanilla come!

Emily Dickinson