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.