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And the oak, and beech, and chestnut had not yet their bright leaves shed;
While the birds were singing gaily from their shelter in the thorn,
Still the sleep-bestowing poppies lit their red lamps in the corn.

I sought my love in the Winter, for I sorrowed for the past,
And in the long nights of thinking I knew my own heart at last;
That mine were the imperfections that I seemed in her to find,
That happiness ever beside me made me to sorrow grow blind,
How I of God's gifts grew weary—man's discontent, I ween—
That to-day sighs for to-morrow, then to weep for what had been.
She was sleeping when I found her, O my love! in one hand lay
Spring's young buds and Summer roses with their fair bloom passed away;
But the poison-breathing poppy on her lip was lying red,
Ah! the sleep-bestowing poppy had left me but the dead;