POPPY. 
169 
Under the quivering branches of the trees, 
The air is cool and fragrant, and the light 
Comes greenly tempered to the aching sight; 
Or to pass hence, and plunging to the knees 
In a green meadow, wade to the full sea 
Of flowering grasses, foaming as we go 
With clustering daisies. Nought more sweet may be, 
The while the skylark soars and sings, and lo ! 
The cuckoo, lone Narcissus of the woods, 
Of his own name enamoured, still that name intrudes. 
POPPIES AND SLEEP. 
HORACE SMITH. 
Gentle sleep ! 
Scatter thy drowsiest Poppies from above; 
And in new dreams, not soon to vanish, bless 
My senses with the sight of her I love. 
THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE. 
A. C. SWINBURNE. 
No growth of moor or coppice 
No heather flower or vine, 
But bloomless buds of poppies 
Green grapes of Proserpine; 
Pale beds of blowing rushes, 
Where no leaf blooms or blushes 
Save this whereout she crushes 
For dead men deadly wine. 
