the language of flowers. 91 
POPPIES. 
Consolation—Slumber—Rest. 
We are slumberous Poppies, 
Lords of Lethe downs, 
Some awake and some asleep, 
Sleeping in our crowns. 
What perchance our dreams may know. 
Let our serious beauty show. 
Central depth of purple, 
Leaves more bright than rose. 
Who shall tell what brightest thought 
Out of darkest grows ; 
Who through what funereal pain, 
Souls to love and peace attain. 
Visions aye are on us, 
Unto eyes of power, 
Pluto’s always setting sun. 
And Proserpine’s bower; 
There, like bees, the pale souls come, 
For our drink with drowsy hum. 
