FRANCIS THOMPSON

87?. The 'Poppy

CUMMER set lip to earth's bosom bare, ^ And left the flushed print in a poppy there ; Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind pufPd it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipp'd its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss, And hot as a swinked gipsy is, And drowsed in sleepy savageries, With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side, Treading the skirts of eventide ; But between the clasp of his hand and hers Lay, felt not, twenty wither'd years.

She turn'd, with the rout of her dusk South hair, And saw the sleeping gipsy there ; And snatch'd and snapp'd it in swift child's whim, With ' Keep it, long as you live ! ' to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres, Trembled up from a bath of tears ; And joy, like a mew sea-rock'd apart, Toss'd on the wave of his troubled heart.

�� �