Mr. Blue Sky
England has been so cold and gray. I love it here, but I'd been feeling strangely sad without any obvious cause. Then a few days ago, the sun came out. It was only 50 degrees, but it felt warm to me after such a bitterly cold winter. I rushed outside to get to class, then found myself stopping, taking off my jacket, and strolling with my palms facing the sun, like cups collecting its healing warmth. A stranger passing by told me he hoped I would stay as happy as I looked right then. I could only laugh in response, because I was so unbelievably happy. I laid down in the sun under a willow tree by a stream, and even though I could hear cars, construction teams, and occasionally music, I felt rejuvenated. Oh sun, how I missed you. How I miss the trees, the hills, hiking along a quiet path far from any noise of the city. I miss California, my home.
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
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