You say this poppy blooms so red Because its roots were daily fed On last year's cold and festering dead? Such is the blessed way of earth; Oblivious, intent on mirth, To turn rank death to gorgeous birth! Even this brutal agony, So hideous, so foul, will be Romance to others, presently. And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance To rise, a poppy field of France? |