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Give me artificial blooms —the glories of porcelain and metal —
which shrivel not and do not rot, with forms that do not age.
Blooms of the exquisite gardens of another place,
where Theories and Rhythms dwell, and Knowledges.
The blooms I love are fashioned of glass or gold:
of a faithful Art, the faithful gifts;
dyed in colors more lovely than the natural,
worked with nacre and with enamel,
with idealized leaves and shoots.
They take their grace from Taste, most wise and pure;
in the earth they did not sprout, nor filthily in slime.
If they have no aroma, perfumes shall we pour,
and burn the incenses of sentiment before them.
