[Editor: This poem by Agnes L. Storrie was published in Poems, 1909.]
A Poppy.
Poppy! delicate and fine,
Is it really true that you
Are no better than a cheat
Set among the golden wheat ?
That for all your lovely red
You will never make us bread,
That though with an elfin guile
You have caught the sun’s warm smile
Captive for a little while
There is no real use in you —
Tell me, tell me, is it true,
Poppy, delicate and fine?
When I lift your leaves apart
And about your hidden heart
See a dust of powdered gold,
And beneath each shimmering fold
Find a rarer, richer hue,
Must I still maintain it true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine ?
When the summer days are spent,
When the reaper’s hook is bent,
When is garnered all the grain,
Shall men say you lived in vain ?
No, for, like a lovely thought
In a blossom’s semblance caught,
Your own meaning you have taught.
And I know, by Hope’s eyes brightened
By the weight of sorrow lightened,
By a faith deepened and heightened,
I know, I know it is not true
That there is no use in you,
Poppy, delicate and fine.
Source:
Agnes L. Storrie. Poems, J. W. Kettlewell, Sydney, 1909, pages 18-19
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