Excerpt from London Night His 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. About the Publisher Forgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.com This book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.