There is a quiet where you go at night.
Your feet fall into earth cushioned like sands;
You part the waist-high poppies with both hands
And walk through dusk made purple with their light.
The poppies lay lush heads against your gown,
Leaving adoring stain; you do not know;
You do not feel the slanting of the slow
Rain of the twilight ever moving down.

An unconcern as tireless as a love,
Has wrapped a sultry darkness on your heart.
In some lost moment if your finger tips
Pressed back a petal, you know nothing of
The fervor of the touch, nor feel the smart
Of pollen that is dusky on your lips.