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.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

***

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