Classic Poem

Poppies, scarlet poppies!
Through their flush have gone,
Oh, how many dainty feet,
Luring lovers on!
Red grow thy poppies,
Sunny South of France.
Red the blood that fed thy sweet
Fields of old romance.

Poppies, wind-blown poppies!
Where's the singing of
Troubadours that by their gleam
Sought the Courts of Love?
Pirouetting poppies!
Hearts they've set a-dance,
— Kings of tourney, kings of dream,
Kings of sunny France!

Poppies, poppies, poppies,
Glowing in the sun!
So have scarlet poppies glowed
Since the world begun.
And the flame of poppies
O'er thy fields shall run,
Fervent France, a lovers' road,
Till the world is done.