The Oriole. By Emily Dickinson

   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.