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.
You May Also Like / View all maxioms
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy.
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and read more
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.
And would it not be proud romance
Falling in some obscure advance,
To rise, a poppy field read more
And would it not be proud romance
Falling in some obscure advance,
To rise, a poppy field of France?
Visions for those too tired to sleep,
These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.
Visions for those too tired to sleep,
These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.
I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed!
The flower of Mercy! that within its heart
Doth read more
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.
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide,
The poppy's bonfire spread.
And far and wide, in a scarlet tide,
The poppy's bonfire spread.
Central depth of purple,
Leaves more bright than rose,
Who shall tell what brightest thought
read more
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?
- Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt),
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtile virtue read more
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtile virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
Bring poppies for a weary mind
That saddens in a senseless din.
Bring poppies for a weary mind
That saddens in a senseless din.
