Poppies

These are the flowers of sleep That nod in the heavy noon, Ere the brown shades eastward creep To a drowsy and dreamful tune— These are the flowers of sleep. Love’s lilies are passion-pale, But these on the sun-kissed flood Of the corn, that rolls breast deep, Burn redder than drops of blood On a dead king’s golden mail. Heart’s dearest, I would that we These blooms of forgetfulness Might bind on our brows, and steep Our love in Lethe ere less Grow its flame with thee or me. When Time with his evil eye The beautiful Love has slain, There is nought to gain or keep Thereafter, and all is vain. Should we wait to see Love die? Sweetheart, of the joys men reap We have reaped; ’tis time to rest. Why should we wake but to weep? Sleep and forgetting is best— These are the flowers of sleep.