Let the sun blaze out, and let the stream flow:
They will blossom and wax fair.
‘Red and white poppies grow at her feet;
The blood-red wait for sweet summer heat,
Wrapped in bud-coats hairy and neat;
But the white buds swell; one day they will burst,
Will open their death-cups drowsy and sweet;
Which will open the first?’
Then a hundred sad voices lifted a wail;
And a hundred glad voices piped on the gale: