Poems (Storrie)/A Poppy

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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?
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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.
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