There grew a poppy in a plot of corn,
And three men went thereby, before the heat
Had drawn from out the field beneath their feet
The freshness of the dewdrops and the morn.
Then did the loveliness of that lone flower
Strike in upon the sense of all the three;
And one, a youth, spake in that thoughtful hour,
And said, "Methinks this poppy well might be
Some rich dark southern beauty, sleepy-sweet
Girt with a bending ring of gracious men."
The second, one that was of riper years,
Made answer, "Nay, a blood-red banner, torn
By steel of strife, and blown with winds of war,
And guarded round by ranks of shining spears."
Then spake to them the third, whose head was hoar, —
"Death comes to love and war; what aid they then?
This flower has one speech only unto me,
That man is as the grass, and all his pride
Of war, and beauty of love shall suddenly
Fade like the flowers in the sad autumn-tide;
The wind sweeps over them, and they are gone!"
And thereupon those three went silent on,
And the low sunlight lay uncrossed by shade,
Until a maiden came, who hummed a song
For very gladness, as she tripped along,
The freshness of the morning in her eyes;
Nor was she moved as they, in any wise,
To any thought of that which makes afraid,
But stopped and plucked the poppy from the ground,
And set it on the whiteness of her dress,
And so passed on, with added loveliness.
No hidden inner meaning had she found,
Nor thought of strife or death to make her sad, —
The sole sweet beauty was enough for her;
She took God's thought, the poppy, and was glad, —
So was she Nature's best interpreter.

O where is peace in all the lovely land?
⁠Since the world was, I see the fair and brave
⁠Downward forever fighting toward the grave.
A few white bones upon a lonely sand,
⁠A rotting corpse beneath the meadow grass
⁠That cannot hear the footsteps as they pass,
Memorial urns pressed by some foolish hand
⁠Have been for all the goal of troublous fears.
⁠Ah! breaking hearts and faint eyes dim with tears,
And momentary hopes by breezes fanned
⁠To flame that fading ever falls again
⁠And leaves but blacker night and deeper pain,
Have been the mould of life in every land.

O is there rest beneath the meadow flowers?
⁠Or is there peace indeed beside the shore
⁠Of shadowy Acheron? nor any more
The weary rolling of the sickening hours
⁠Will mark the interchange of woe and woe;
⁠Nor ever voices railing to and fro
Break the sweet silence of those darksome bowers?
⁠But there a sorrowful sweet harmony
⁠Of timeless life in peaceful death shall be
In woodlands dim where never tempest lowers
⁠Nor branding heat can pierce the sunless shade.
⁠O sweet forever in that dreamful glade,
If there indeed such deepest peace be ours!

Come once, just once, dear love, when I am dead —
⁠Ah, God! I would it were this hour, tonight —
And look your last upon the frozen face
⁠That was to you a summer's brief delight.

The silent lips will not entreat you then,
⁠Nor the eyes vex you with unwelcome tears;
The low, sad voice will utter no complaint,
⁠Nor the heart tremble with its restless fears.

I shall he still — you will forgive me then
⁠For all that I have been, or failed to be:
Say, as you look, "Poor heart, she loved me well,
⁠No other love will be so true to me"

Then bend and kiss the lips that will not speak —
⁠One little kiss for all the dear, dead days —
Say once, "God rest her soul!" then go in peace,
⁠No haunting ghost shall meet you in your ways.

Child! it would be your undoing;
⁠And I struggle hard, you see,
That your dear kind heart may never
⁠Feel the glow of love for me.

That too well I have succeeded,
⁠Pains me in my own despite
And I often think, "Oh, would you
⁠Love me, come whatever might!"