A Poppy.
19
When I lift your leaves apart
And about your hidden heart
See a dust of powdered gold,
And beneath each shimmering fold
Find a rarer, richer hue,
Must I still maintain it true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine?
And about your hidden heart
See a dust of powdered gold,
And beneath each shimmering fold
Find a rarer, richer hue,
Must I still maintain it true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine?
When the summer days are spent,
When the reaper's hook is bent,
When is garnered all the grain,
Shall men say you lived in vain?
No, for, like a lovely thought
In a blossom's semblance caught,
Your own meaning you have taught.
And I know, by Hope's eyes brightened
By the weight of sorrow lightened,
By a faith deepened and heightened,
I know, I know it is not true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine.
When the reaper's hook is bent,
When is garnered all the grain,
Shall men say you lived in vain?
No, for, like a lovely thought
In a blossom's semblance caught,
Your own meaning you have taught.
And I know, by Hope's eyes brightened
By the weight of sorrow lightened,
By a faith deepened and heightened,
I know, I know it is not true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine.
