LEIGH HUNT. 
478 
Were the beams that thread the brier 
In the morn with golden tire 
Scented too—they’d smell like me, 
All Elysian pungency. 
POPPIES. 
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 Proserpina’s bower. 
There, like bees, the pale souls come 
For our drink with drowsy hum. 
