The Honeysuckle

I

ED 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.