I don't want real narcissi - neither lilies nor real roses please me, decorating trite and common gardens. I am grieved, fatigued, afflicted by their flesh their perishable beauty bores me. Give me artificial flowers - porcelain and metal glories - neither fading nor decaying, forms unaging. Flowers of the splendid gardens of another place, where Forms and Styles and Knowledge dwell. I love flowers made of glass or gold, true Art's true gifts, their painted hues more beautiful than nature's, worked in nacre and enamel, with perfect leaves and branches. Their charm derives from wise and pure Good Taste; they didn't vilely sprout in dust or mud. If they lack scent, we'll pour out perfume, burn romantic myrrh before them.
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