Three Songs after Emily Dickinson

I heard a Fly buzz -- when I died -- 
The Stillness in the Room
Was like the Stillness in the Air -- 
Between the Heaves of Storm.

The Eyes around -- had wrung them dry -- 
And Breaths were gathering [sure]1
For that last Onset -- when the King
Be witnessed -- in the Room -- 

I willed my Keepsakes -- Signed away
What portion of me be
Assignable -- and then it was
There interposed a Fly -- 

With Blue -- uncertain stumbling Buzz -- 
Between the light -- and me -- 
And then the Windows failed -- and then
I could not see to see --

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!

Hope is [the]1 thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.