It’s near the end of May; the jasmine is fading slowly but the hillside where I live is replenished with swathes of wild honeysuckle trailing down in surprise ruptures of scent as you find yourself passing by in the dark: the nectarous, sweet siren call of honeysuckle. I have always loved it so much. And yet, to my knowledge, this scent has yet to be convincingly captured in a perfume. I have never smelled one that even comes close.
skin smells of sun, the
insides of roses. I want
to eat that light. Every
|(The Wild Honeysuckle|
| By Philip Freneau )
I PLUCKED a honeysuckle where
The hedge on high is quick with thorn,
And climbing for the prize, was torn,
And fouled my feet in quag-water;
And by the thorns and by the wind
The blossom that I took was thinn’d,
And yet I found it sweet and fair.
Thence to a richer growth I came,
Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,
The honeysuckles sprang by scores,
Not harried like my single stem,
All virgin lamps of scent and dew.
So from my hand that first I threw,
Yet plucked not any more of them.
(Dante Gabriel Rossetti)