Pain in Pleasure

A thought lay like a flower upon mine heart,

And drew around it other thoughts like bees

For multitude, and thirst of sweetnesses;

'Whereat rejoicing, I desired the art

Of the Greek whistler, who to wharf and mart

Could lure those insect swarms from orange-trees,

That I might hive with me such thoughts, and please

My soul so, always. Foolish counterpart

Of a weak man's vain wishes! While I spoke,

The thought I called a flower, grew nettle-rough—

The thoughts called bees, stung me to festering.

Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she woke,)

Four best and gladdest thoughts but long enough,

And they will all prove sad enough to sting.