JULY 165 



train of beautiful thoughts which men have 

 had about this mysterious flower, with its 

 poisonous heart, and its sunny face, come 

 singing by, and we repeat its name, and it 

 needs all of its colour and all of its life to rouse 

 us from the dreams which will but barely end 

 when the wind rifles the drifting cloud of 

 poppies and, white or scarlet or pink or pale 

 silver, the last crinkled, crispy satin petal falls 

 from the stalk. With the passing of the poppy, 

 July is gone. 



