Classic Poem

Our master, Meleager, he who framed
The first Anthology and daintiest,
Mated each minstrel with a flower, and named
For each the blossom that beseemed him best.
'Twas then as now; garlands were somewhat rare,
Candidates many: one in a doleful strain
Lamented thus: “This is a sad affair;
How shall I face my publisher again?
Lacking some emblem suitable for me,
My book's undone; I shall not sell a copy.”
“Take courage, son,” quoth Phœbus, “there must be
Somewhere or other certainly a poppy.”