Emily

 XX.

Emily Dickenson

Emily kept her poems hidden beneath her bed, rough bound, she in life was not known as a poet, but more a gardner or botanist. Like Vincent, her fame came posthumously.

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!

I do not care, Burns, Yeats, Poe or Emily

But find at least one poet to inspire thee 

What is life, if all is science and math?

How can one assuage mendacious wrath? 

John Clare Stokes

Tiger Swallowtail upon a blazing star from afar