Author Mary Elizabeth Coleridge Where , to me, is the loss — Of the scenes they saw — of the sounds they heard; A butterfly flits across, — Or a bird; The moss is growing on the wall, — I heard the leaf of the poppy fall. Tags Short Poems Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 4.2 (6 votes) Rate Log in or register to post comments