BREATH OF THE BRIAR

O briar-scents, on yon wet wing

Of warm South-west wind brushing by,

You mind me of the sweetest thing

That ever mingled frank and shy:

When she and I, by love enticed,

Beneath the orchard-apples met,

In equal halves a ripe one sliced,

And smelt the juices ere we ate.

That apple of the briar-scent,

Among our lost in Britain now,

Was green of rind, and redolent

Of sweetness as a milking cow.

The briar gives it back, well nigh

The damsel with her teeth on it;

Her twinkle between frank and shy,

My thirst to bite where she had bit.