When I first began reading through the , I noticed what seemed to be an obsession with death. Then I thought that perhaps it wasn't so much an obsession as an integral part of her life experience. I wrote a little about that in one of my first Poetry page entries.
I'm still reading Emily once in a while. Chanced on this one a couple of days ago, and remembered why we love her so.
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 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 --