The Wound

Wounded am I, yet happier — happier far
Than they who have not felt the precious sting!
Poor feet that bleed not with this wandering!
Poor hands that burn not, plucking at a star!
Poor hearts unblessed and whole! I bear the scar
Of a too piercing loveliness. The thing
Hung out of reach I touched, and now I sing
Mad with delight, more blessed than others are.
For since the blushing and ethereal hour
When loveliness upon my heart was born,
When I was stricken by her magic power,
I run — I run — wild, ecstasied, forlorn,
For beauty, when I go to pluck her flower,
Pierces my willing bosom with a thorn.