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.