Poppies

"Not poppy nor mandragora Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday."

"When poor Mama long restless lies She drinks the poppys juice; That liquor soon can close her eyes, And slumber soft produce: O then my sweet, my happy boy Will thank the Poppy-flower, Which brings the sleep to dear Mama, At midnights darksome hour."

"But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed."

"Though the Philistines may jostle, you will rank as an apostle in the high aesthetic band, If you walk down Piccadilly with a poppy or a lily in your medieval hand."

"Purpureus veluti cum flos succisus aratro Languescit moriens; lassove papavera collo Demisere caput, pluvia cum forte gravantur."

"I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed! The flower of Mercy! that within its heart Doth keep "a drop serene" for human need, A drowsy balm for every bitter smart. For happy hours the Rose will idly blow , The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe."

"Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain?"

"The poppy opes her scarlet purse of dreams."

"The poppies hung Dew-dabbled on their stalks."

"We are slumberous poppies, Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious beauty show."

"Visions for those too tired to sleep, These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep."

"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze most softly lulling to my soul."