Sonnet LXXI. To The Poppy.

A poem by Anna Seward

While Summer Roses all their glory yield
To crown the Votary of Love and Joy,
Misfortune's Victim hails, with many a sigh,
Thee, scarlet POPPY of the pathless field,
Gaudy, yet wild and lone; no leaf to shield
Thy flaccid vest, that, as the gale blows high,
Flaps, and alternate folds around thy head. -
So stands in the long grass a love-craz'd Maid,
Smiling aghast; while stream to every wind
Her gairish ribbons, smear'd with dust and rain;
But brain-sick visions cheat her tortur'd mind,
And bring false peace. Thus, lulling grief and pain,
Kind dreams oblivious from thy juice proceed,
THOU FLIMSY, SHEWY, MELANCHOLY WEED.