The Honeysuckle

I plucked a honeysuckle where

The hedge on high is quick with thorn,

And climbing for the prize, was torn,

And fouled my feet in quag-water;

And by the thorns and by the wind

The blossom that I took was thinn'd,

And yet I found it sweet and fair.

Thence to a richer growth I came,

Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,

The honeysuckles sprang by scores,

Not harried like my single stem,

All virgin lamps of scent and dew.

So from my hand that first I threw,

Yet plucked not any more of them.