flowers sway- 
ing among the familiar daisies 
and grasses of my own land, and 
otherwise attended by a host of 
meadow flowers whose names I 
had not yet learned. The night 
ephemerz fluttered here and there, 
and a large moth, which seemed al- 
most phosphorescent in its whiteness, 
hovered spirit-like close above the 
poppies, recalling to mind a weird 
picture which I had once lingered 
"8. over in genuine fascination—* The Soul 
of the Opium-Eater”— representing a 
SLEEPING POPPIES 
gauze-winged moth in the moonlight sipping “the drop serene” 
of 2 5S sipping ps 
from the open chalice of a poppy—a bold Hawthornesque conceit 
