And most of all would I flee from the cruel madness of love, The honey of poison-flowers and all the measureless ill.

-Tennyson
  Maud, pt.1, sect.4, stanza10, l.156^7.

The sun hums down through the cotton flowers of her dress into the bell of her heart and buzzes in the honey there and couches and kisses, lazy-loving and boozed, in her red-berried breast.

-Thomas, Dylan Marlais
  Under MilkWood.

I've beenrichand I've beenpoor.Believeme, honey, rich is better.

-Tucker, Sophie pseudonym of  Sophia Abuza
  Some ofThese Days.