Classic Poem

The poppies nod their sleepy brows,
And reel adown the opiate air;
The somber lilies slowly rouse,
And fold transparent hands in prayer.

The climbing roses whisper soft
Sweet messages; the four-o'clocks
Are drowsy now—but far aloft
I see the watchmen-hollyhocks.

The Moslem-lilacs seem to call
On “Allah” through the red sunset;
They rise upon the turret-wall
Of every leafy minaret.

The stately tulips at this hour
Forget their pride. With good intent
The haughty dahlias yield their dower—
The dusky peony-queens relent.

A thousand lights are swung in view
From heaven's dome. I leave the fair
Meek violets kneeling in the dew;
It is the evening hour of prayer.