Classic Poem

Behold how rocked by Zephyrs
The poppy's blossom gleams:
The flower that best adorneth
The slumberous God of dreams.
Here, scarlet like the cloudbanks
Which sunset renders bright,
There, pale and white and ghostly
As 'neath the moonbeam's light.

I've heard men say in warning,
Should one 'mid poppies sleep,
His senses soon are buried
In heavy dreams and deep;
Awaking, he retaineth
This fancy strange and dim,
That all things true or lovely
But shadows are to him.

In lifetime's early morning
I too once rested there,
By flow'rets hidden wholly
In a valley bright and fair.
So drowsy seemed their odour
That, ere I felt aware,
My life became a picture,
Its truths but dreams and air.

Since then the power hath lasted
All things as then to view;
The world but seems a picture
And only dreams are true.
The shadows round me flitting
Distinct as stars I trace;
O Poppy! flower of poets,
My head for ever grace.