Where the poppy-banners flow <br /> in and out amongst the corn, <br /> spotless morn <br />ever saw us come and go <br /> <br />hand in hand, as girl and boy <br /> warming fast to youth and maid, <br /> half afraid <br />at the hint of passionate joy <br /> <br />still in Summer's rose unshown: <br /> yet we heard nor knew a fear; <br /> strong and clear <br />summer's eager clarion blown <br /> <br />from the sunrise to the set: <br /> now our feet are far away, <br /> night and day, <br />do the old-known spots forget? <br /> <br />Sweet, I wonder if those hours <br /> breathe of us now parted thence, <br /> if a sense <br />of our love-birth thrill their flowers. <br /> <br />Poppies flush all tremulous -- <br /> has our love grown into them, <br /> root and stem; <br />are the red blooms red with us? <br /> <br />Summer's standards are outroll'd, <br /> other lovers wander slow; <br /> I would know <br />if the morn is that of old. <br /> <br />Here our days bloom fuller yet, <br /> happiness is all our task; <br /> still I ask -- <br />do the vanish'd days forget?<br /><br />Christopher John Brennan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poppies-4/
