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 honey suckles 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.