had not thought of violets late, / The wild, shy kind that spring beneath your feet / In wistful April days, when lovers mate / And wander through the fields in raptures sweet. / The thought of violets meant florists' shops, / And bows and pins, and perfumed papers fine; / And garish lights, and mincing little fops / And cabarets and soaps, and deadening wines. / So far from sweet real thingsContact Princess