Poemsby Emily Dickinson

The Oriole

 One of the ones that Midas touched, Who failed to touch us all, Was that confiding prodigal, The blissful oriole. 
 So drunk, he disavows it With badinage divine; So dazzling, we mistake him For an alighting mine. 
 A pleader, a dissembler, An epicure, a thief, - Betimes an oratorio, An ecstasy in chief; 
 The Jesuit of orchards, He cheats as he enchants Of an entire attar For his decamping wants. 
 The splendor of a Burmah, The meteor of birds, Departing like a pageant Of ballads and of bards. 
 I never thought that Jason sought For any golden fleece; But then I am a rural man, With thoughts that make for peace. 
 But if there were a Jason, Tradition suffer me Behold his lost emolument Upon the apple-tree.