Poppyfields
A WILDERNESS were better than this place
Where foregone seasons set a gentle spell
Decking it with such fair and tender grace
An angel might be pleased here to dwell;
Now all its gay delights are dismal grown
In the full glory of the summer time,
As from the horror of some evil thing
Its every grace had flown,—
Laid under penance for an unknown crime
The garden close lies sick and sorrowing.
Where foregone seasons set a gentle spell
Decking it with such fair and tender grace
An angel might be pleased here to dwell;
Now all its gay delights are dismal grown
In the full glory of the summer time,
As from the horror of some evil thing
Its every grace had flown,—
Laid under penance for an unknown crime
The garden close lies sick and sorrowing.
Pale in the sultry splendour of the day
Each shoot a finger, stiffened wearily,
The harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and grey
Pointing at that which none may ever see,
And darker grows the pansy's brooding face
With dark foreboding; and the lily's cup
Turns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun;
In the cypress's embrace
The valiant scented bay is swallowed up.
The roses all have withered, one by one.
Each shoot a finger, stiffened wearily,
The harsh-leaved rosemary stands stark and grey
Pointing at that which none may ever see,
And darker grows the pansy's brooding face
With dark foreboding; and the lily's cup
Turns loathsome, festering sourly in the sun;
In the cypress's embrace
The valiant scented bay is swallowed up.
The roses all have withered, one by one.
Beyond the close, smothering the wholesome corn,
A flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earth
Baleful, and blighting all that they adorn,
The burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth,
A flight of scarlet locusts fallen to earth
Baleful, and blighting all that they adorn,
The burnished heralds of a bitterer dearth,
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