Classic Poem

Wild honeysuckle throws across
The hazel-trees its gold and white,
And from its curving flutes and spurs,
Unfettered, sun-dyed revellers,
Such essence importunes the night
That roses are but dross.

The hazel-tree within my mind
Fruit good and bad will bear, and men
May vilify or praise me when
They crack the nuts that grew forgot,
Some kernelled white, some brown with rot;
No matter what they find.

No matter what they find, if still
Known but to me, the wild spikes fling
Their radiance over each small thing
Round and above my tree, if yet
Wild honeysuckle sprigs curvet
I shall be living still.