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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BRIDGE BUILDER by WILL ALLEN DROMGOOLE NEW YEAR'S EVE by THOMAS HARDY AFTER DEATH by FRANCES ISABEL PARNELL PRELUDE by JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE INVOCATION TO SLEEP by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH SONGS OF NIGHT TO MORNING: 5 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) |