Every castle of the air Sleeps in the fine black grains, and there Are seeds for every romance, or light Whiff of a dream for a summer night.

Visions for those too tired to sleep, These seeds cast a film over eyes which weep.

Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain? - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt),

We are slumberous poppies, Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious may know. - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt),

And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance, To rise, a poppy field of France?

Find me next a Poppy posy, Type of his harangues so dozy.