Poppies.
CHARLES WEEKES
The sudden night is here at once:
The lost lamb cries and runs and stands,
For all the poppy cups are hands
To seize and take him when he runs.
The dusky cups are blood colour;
And like a cup of blood this one
To drink, and be with Babylon,
And love and kiss the lips of her.—
Thy sins as snow!—just then it burned
The dark—a flaming face and bust;
And just beneath here in the dust
The Scarlet Woman laughed and turned.