Wildflowers And Hothouse-plants

 "GOOD Heavens, man, what a freak of taste! 
What blindness to form and feature! 
The girl's no beauty, and might be placed 
As a hoydenish kind of creature." 

No doubt it were more in the current tone 
And the tide today we move in, 
If I could but choose me to make my own 
A type of our average woman. 

Like winter blossoms they all unfold 
Their primly maturing glory; 
Like pot-grown plants in the tepid mould 
Of a window conservatory. 

They sleep by rule and by rule they wake, 
Each tendril is taught its duties; 
Were I worldly-wise, yes, my choice I'd make 
From our stock of average beauties. 

For worldly wisdom what do I care? 
I am sick of its prating mummers; 
She breathes of the field and the open air, 
And the fragrance of sixteen summers.

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