The Poppy


Lake Oswego, United States

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Wall Art


Artist's Description

The Poppy By Francis Thompson 1859-1907 SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare, And left the flush’d print in a poppy there; Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank, And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine. Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss. A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty wither’d years. She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there; And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim, With—‘Keep it, long as you live!’—to him. And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears; And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart, Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart. For he saw what she did not see, That—as kindled by its own fervency— The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly: And suddenly ‘twixt his hand and hers He knew the twenty wither’d years— No flower, but twenty shrivell’d years. ‘Was never such thing until this hour,’ Low to his heart he said; ‘the flower Of sleep brings wakening to me, And of oblivion memory.’ ‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said, ‘Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!’ And again to his own heart very low: ‘O child! I love, for I love and know; ’But you, who love nor know at all The diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall, Where some rise early, few sit long: In how differing accents hear the throng His great Pentecostal tongue; ‘Who know not love from amity, Nor my reported self from me; A fair fit gift is this, meseems, You give—this withering flower of dreams. ’O frankly fickle, and fickly true, Do you know what the days will do to you? To your Love and you what the days will do, O frankly fickle, and fickly true? ’You have loved me, Fair, three lives—or days: ’Twill pass with the passing of my face. But where I go, your face goes too, To watch lest I play false to you. ’I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover, Knowing well when certain years are over You vanish from me to another; Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother. ’So frankly fickle, and fickly true! For my brief life-while I take from you This token, fair and fit, meseems, For me—this withering flower of dreams.’ The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head, Heavy with dreams, as that with bread: The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeper The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper. I hang ‘mid men my needless head, And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread: The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper Time shall reap, but after the reaper The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper! Love! love! your flower of wither’d dream In leaved rhyme lies safe, I deem, Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme, From the reaper man, and his reaper Time. Love! I fall into the claws of Time: But lasts within a leaved rhyme All that the world of me esteems— My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.

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