I. PROEM. <br />This was a sweet white wildwood violet <br />I found among the painted slips that grow <br />Where, under hot-house glass, the flowers forget <br />How the sun shines, and how the cool winds blow. <br /> <br />The violet took the orchid's colouring, <br />Tricked out its dainty fairness like the rest; <br />Yet still its breath was as the breath of Spring, <br />And the wood's heart was wild within its breast. <br /> <br />The orchid mostly is the flower I love, <br />And violets, the mere violets of the wood, <br />For all their sweetness, have not power to move <br />The curiosity that rules my blood. <br /> <br />Yet here, in this spice-laden atmosphere, <br />Where only nature is a thing unreal, <br />I found in just a violet, planted here, <br />The artificial flower of my ideal. <br />II. CHRISTMAS-EVE. <br />April-hearted Lilian, <br />April with our love began; <br />Winter comes, but April violets <br />Linger on. <br /> <br />So the fancy of an hour, <br />Born of sudden sun and shower, <br />Braves the winter, and has blossomed <br />Into flower.<br /><br />Arthur Symons<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lillian-2/
