The Honeysuckle.

From: Poems (1844)
Author: Christopher Pearse Cranch
Published: Carey and Hart 1844 Philadelphia



SWEET household flower, whose clambering vines festoon
The little porch before this cottage door,
How dear to me when daylight’s toils are o’er,
By the broad shining of the summer moon,
To feel thy fragrance on the breath of June
Afloat;—or when the rosy twilight falls,
Ere the first night-bird to his fellow calls,
Ere the first star is out, and the low tune
Of Nature pauses, and the humming-birds
Come wooing thee with swift and silent kisses,
Ere wandering through the garden’s wildernesses—
Emblem of that calm love that needs no words,
Let me like thee, sweet, silent clinging vine,
Clasp my own home awhile, ere stranger home be mine.


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