Theodore Wratislaw - Hothouse Flowers lyrics

I hate the flower of wood or common field. I cannot love the primrose nor regret The d**h of any shrinking violet, Nor even the cultured garden's ban*l yield. The silver lips of lilies virginal, The full deep bosom of the enchanted rose Please less than flowers gla**-hid from frost and snows For whom an alien heat makes festival. I love those flowers reared by man's careful art, Of heady scents and colors: strong of heart Or weak that die beneath the touch of knife, Some rich as sin and some as virtue pale, And some as subtly infamous and frail As she whose love still eats my soul and life.