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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH'S JEST-BOOK: SIBYLLA'S DIRGE by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS; OR, THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA by FRANCIS HASTINGS CHARLES DOYLE TO MY BOOKSELLER by BEN JONSON THE BASE OF ALL METAPHYSICS by WALT WHITMAN THE DOUBLE STANDARD by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS ON A YOUNG BRIDE DROWNED IN THE BOSPHORUS by AGATHIAS SCHOLASTICUS |