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.