Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, <br />A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow <br />Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow <br />Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat <br />Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet <br />Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro <br />To mark the shore. <br />The farmer does not know <br />That they are there. He walks with heavy feet, <br />Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain, <br />But I,--I smile to think that days remain <br />Perhaps to me in which, through bread be sweet <br />No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain, <br />I shall be glad remembering how the fleet, <br />Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poppies-on-the-wheat/
