The Ballad of the Quest

by Virna Sheard

A SONG OF POPPIES

I love red poppies! Imperial red poppies!
Sun-worshippers are they;
Gladly as trees live through a hundred summers
They live one little day.

I love red poppies! Impassioned scarlet poppies!
Even their strange perfume
Seems like an essence brewed by fairy people,
From an immortal bloom.

I love red poppies! Red, silken, swaying poppies!
Deep in their hearts they keep
A magic cure for woe,—a draught of Lethe,—
A lotus-gift of sleep.

I love red poppies! Soft silver-stemmed, red poppies,
That from the rain and sun,
Gather a balm to heal some earth-born sorrow,
When their glad day is done.

THE SHEPHERD WIND

When hills and plains are powdered white,
And bitter cold the north wind blows,
Upon my window in the night
A fairy-garden grows.

Here lilies that no hand hath sown
Bloom white as foam upon the sea,
And elfin bells to earth unknown,
Hold frost-bound melody.

And here are blossoms like to stars
Tangled in nets of silver lace,—
My very breath their beauty mars,
Or stirs them from their place.