Lillian

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