"And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance, To rise, a poppy field of France?"
"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."
"Not poppy nor mandragora Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday."