Gentle sleep! Scatter thy drowsiest poppies from above; And in new dreams not soon to vanish, bless My senses with the sight of her I love.

Our charity begins at home, And mostly ends where it begins.

"Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory Array'd," the lilies cry, "in robes like ours; How vain your grandeur! Ah, how transitory Are human flowers!"

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?