Let no blame upon us fall,
Thrifty ones of cot and hall,
That, while ye take care to hoard
Corn and wine for winter's board,
We beside the hedgerow lie,
Heedless how bright hours go by.
Wonder not we dread no want,
When the year is bare and gaunt:
Idle bread we have to eat, —
Poppies grew amidst our wheat.

Blame not us, ye revelers blithe,
Who have lodged the rake and scythe,
And with fan and flail no more
Tread the granary's breezy floor:
Though, with humming wire and flute,
The boon Season well ye suit,
Call us not by word or glance;
We will neither feast nor dance.
Blame not us that sleep is sweet, —
Poppies grew amidst our wheat.