On a half-reapèd furrow sound asleep, / Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook / Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers.

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

The poppies hung Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

I see a lilly on thy brow, / With anguish moist and fever dew; / And on thy cheek a fading rose / Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads / Full beautiful, a faery's child; / Her hair was long, her foot was light, / And her eyes were wild.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.

I am half asleep but the negotiations are wide awake.