IM A POPPY GARbEN 
T TPON a summer's day, when the noon-tide air 
Was dreamy with the languor of the heat, 
The poppies of my garden stirred to speech. 
"Master," they seemed to say, "we bring thee gift 
Of sleep, and, in sleep's hand, forgetfulness 
Of the world's smallnesses and petty prides. 
That, waking, thou may est have a freer heart 
For life's nobilities." .... 
Then I awoke. Pray God, the dream come true. 
