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- thro endless summer days-
From inns of Molten Blue-
When ‘Landlords’ turn the drunken Bee
Out of the Foxgloves door-
When Butterflies- renounces 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-