I taste a liquor never brewed –
From Tankards scooped in Pearl –
Not all the Frankfort Berries
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!
--
Ëèêåð íå ñâàðåííûé, î âêóñ –
ïåé è ñàìîâîëü,
íå âñå ñìîðîäèíû äàþò
÷óäåñíûé Àëêîãîëü!
Âäûõàé ïîãëóáæå, ÿ åñòü ÿ,
äåáîøèð ðîñû,
áåñêðàéíèõ ëåòíèõ äíåé ðàçáðîä –
íåáåñíîé ïîëîñû.
Êîãäà «õîçÿåâà» ñâåðíóò ï÷åëó –
â ñâîåì Ôîêëîð,
à áàáî÷êè ñïîëçóò ïîä ñòîë,
ÿ áóäó ïèòü åùå!
Ïîêà íàì ìàøåò Ñåðàôèì –
óøàíêàìè ñíåãîâ,
à ñîëíöå, ïüÿíèöà ñõâàòèë,
çàïíóâøèñü îá íåãî.