This poem isn't exactly a "hiking poem," but it was one of the ones that often came to mind as I thru-hiked the Appalachian Trail a few years ago. Some days I felt like I could just float away into the sun, backpack and all.
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 (1830–86)
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