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Amy Lowell
Every castle of the air Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance, or light Whiff of a dream for a summer night.
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Amy Lowell
Visions for those too tired to sleep, These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.
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Christina G. Rossetti
Let but my scarlet head appear And I am held in scorn; Yet juice of subtile virtue lies Within my cup of curious dyes.
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Francis Thompson
Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.
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Horace (Horatio) Smith
Gentle sleep! Scatter thy drowsiest poppies from above; And in new dreams not soon to vanish, bless My senses with the sight of her I love.
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John Keats
The poppies hung Dew-dabbed on their stalks.
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John Keats
Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.
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Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt)
Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain?
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Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt)
We are slumberous poppies, Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious may know.
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Lieut.-Col. John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.
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Mary A. Barr
I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! The flower of Mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the Rose will idly blow-- The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.
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Thomas Moore
Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy.
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William Alexander Percy
And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance, To rise, a poppy field of France?
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William Winter
Bring poppies for a weary mind That saddens in a senseless din.
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