Poems (Jackson)/Poppies on the Wheat
POPPIES ON THE WHEAT.
LONG Ancona's hills the shimmering heat,A tropic tide of air with ebb and flowBathes all the fields of wheat until they glowLike flashing seas of green, which toss and beatAround the vines. The poppies lithe and fleetSeem running, fiery torchmen, to and froTo mark the shore.To mark the shore.The farmer does not knowThat they are there. He walks with heavy feet,Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain,But I,—I smile to think that days remainPerhaps to me in which, though bread be sweetNo more, and red wine warm my blood in vain,I shall be glad remembering how the fleet,Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.