I taste a liquor never brewed

I love Emily Dickinson.  Admittedly, I am often too quick to say that I love something or someone, but when it comes to Emily, I don’t use the term flippantly.  I recently reread her brilliant poem, “I Taste a Liquor Never Brewed” for my AP class, and once again, Emily has caught me by surprise.  I am smitten with lines like, “Inebriate of Air—Am I--/And Debauchee of Dew;” the author of such lines is undeniably lovely and lovable.  Her playful description of nature and of her interaction with it is so joyful; I wish it were summer so that I could run outside right now, amidst the bees and high clouds, in search of her bliss.  I am sure that my image of Emily, a shy and reclusive genius who ironically was so able to understand the inner vision of her fellow humans, is flawed and inaccurate, but I don't care. She brings a flush to my cheeks.  I hope that my shy but playful daughter continues to have Emily's childlike, giddy pleasure out of doors even when she is grown. 

Dickinson is simultaneously so appreciatively passionate and frivolously irreverent. I don't know how she does it. When I try to write about my experience in nature, I tend to be dramatically somber and even a bit pretentious.  I usually wind up seriously contemplating a holy and heady place rather than taking exuberant joy in the outdoors-- I take after my father in that way; I want to connect to the wilderness in a profound and serious manner.  I forget to have fun every time I am outside.  Thanks for the reminder Emily.  I want to go ride my bike in circles in front of my house.

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