Poems (Storrie)/A Poppy

by Agnes Louisa Storrie

A Poppy.

      Poppy! delicate and fine,
Is it really true that you
Are no better than a cheat
Set among the golden wheat?
That for all your lovely red
You will never make us bread,
That though with an elfin guile
You have caught the sun's warm smile
Captive for a little while
There is no real use in you—
Tell me, tell me, is it true,
      Poppy, delicate and fine?

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?

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.