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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392047" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Poppy</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">To Monica</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,<br>And left the flushed print in a poppy there:<br>Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,<br>And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With burnt mouth, red like a lion's, it drank<br>The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank,<br>And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine<br>When the Eastern conduits ran with wine.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,<br>And hot as a swinked gipsy is,<br>And drowsed in sleepy savageries,<br>With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A child and man paced side by side,<br>Treading the skirts of eventide;<br>But between the clasp of his hand and hers<br>Lay, felt not, twenty withered years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">She turned, with the rout of her dusk South hair,<br>And saw the sleeping gipsy there:<br>And snatched and snapped it in swift child's whim,<br>With-- &quot;Keep it, long as you live!&quot; -- to him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,<br>Trembled up from a bath of tears;<br>And joy, like a mew sea-rocked apart,<br>Tossed on the wave of his troubled heart.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">For he saw what she did not see,<br>That -- as kindled by its own fervency --<br>The verge shrivelled inward smoulderingly:<br>And suddenly 'twixt his hand and hers<br>He knew the twenty withered years -- <br>No flower, but twenty shrivelled years.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Was never such thing until this hour,&quot;<br>Low to his heart he said; &quot;the flower<br>Of sleep brings wakening to me,<br>And of oblivion, memory.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Was never this thing to me,&quot; he said,<br>&quot;Though with bruisèd poppies my feet are red!&quot;<br>And again to his own heart very low: <br>&quot;O child! I love, for I love and know;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;But you, who love nor know at all <br>The diverse chambers in Love's guest-hall,<br>Where some rise early, few sit long:<br>In how differing accents hear the throng<br>His great Pentecostal tongue;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Who know not love from amity,<br>Nor my reported self from me;<br>A fair fit gift is this, meseems,<br>You give -- this withering flower of dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;O frankly fickle, and fickly true,<br>Do you know what the days will do to you?<br>To your love and you what the days will do,<br>O frankly fickle, and fickly true?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;You have loved me, Fair, three lives -- or days:<br>'Twill pass with the passing of my face.<br>But where I go, your face goes too,<br>To watch lest I play false to you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,<br>Knowing well when certain years are over<br>You vanish from me to another;<br>Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!<br>For my brief life while I take from you<br>This token, fair and fit, meseems, <br>For me -- this withering flower of dreams.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,<br>Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:<br>The goodly grain and the sun-flushed sleeper<br>The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I hang 'mid men my needless head,<br>And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:<br>The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper<br>Time shall reap, but after the reaper<br>The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love, love! your flower of withered dream<br>In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,<br>Sheltered and shut in a nook of rhyme,<br>From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Love! I fall into the claws of Time:<br>But lasts within a leavèd rhyme<br>All that the world of me esteems --<br>My withered dreams, my withered dreams.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Francis+Thompson">Francis Thompson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392047" data-title="The Poppy de Francis Thompson" data-description="To Monica

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..."></div>
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