Volume 3 — SONNET LXXI. TO THE POPPY.

While Summer roses all their glory yield To crown the votary of love and joy, Misfortune’s victim hails, with many a sigh, Thee, scarlet Poppy of the pathless field, Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield Thy flaccid vest, that as the gale blows high, Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head.— So stands in the long grass a love-craz’d maid, Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind Her garish ribbons, smear’d with dust and rain; But brain-sick visions cheat her tortured mind, And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain, Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed, Thou flimsy, shewy, melancholy Weed.