Sonnet LXXI. To The Poppy.

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.