69 Sublime Poems About Poppy Flowers

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Here are my favorite poems about poppy flowers categorized:

  • Famous poems about poppies
  • Short poppy poems
  • Poems about poppies and love

So if you want the best poems about poppy flowers, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get started!

67 Best Poems About Poppies (Handpicked)
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Sublime Poems About Poppy Flowers

Enter a world of poetic enchantment as you immerse yourself in a carefully curated collection of poems that bloom with the vivid beauty of poppy flowers.

Discover the immortal verses penned by renowned poets that weave tales of poppies’ allure and their irresistible connection to love.

From the intoxicating fragrance of famous poems to the tender embrace of verses that intertwine poppies and love, this extraordinary anthology invites you to wander through a garden of words where each line blossoms with passion and elegance.

Get ready to be captivated by the poetic secrets hidden within the delicate petals of poppy flowers, a symphony of verses that will ignite your senses and leave an indelible mark upon your heart.

Let’s jump right in!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Poppy Flowers

lovely lady holding a bouquet of poppies  in a poppy field

“Song of the Poppies” by Frances Jane Forsayth

We are bright and we are gay,
Waving on a summer day,
Though we are but poppy flowers;
Wealth of beauty it is ours.

When our flowers you lightly gather,
Think of skies and sunny weather;
And our red and brilliant bloom,
Thus your feelings will perfume.

Glowing corn and scarlet poppies,
Shining in the summer air,
Tell us now, ye poet painter,
Which of us ye count most fair.

Soft and clear the children answer,
While they hold our poppy-flowers,
Gay and bright our posies are
In the cornfield’s happy hours.

Famous Poems About Poppies

Beautiful woman in a poppy field

“In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

“Poppies” by Victor James Daley

These are the flowers of sleep
That nod in the heavy noon,
Ere the brown shades eastward creep
To a drowsy and dreamful tune—
These are the flowers of sleep.

Love’s lilies are passion-pale,
But these on the sun-kissed flood
Of the corn, that rolls breast deep,
Burn redder than drops of blood
On a dead king’s golden mail.

Heart’s dearest, I would that we
These blooms of forgetfulness
Might bind on our brows, and steep
Our love in Lethe ere less
Grow its flame with thee or me.

When Time with his evil eye
The beautiful Love has slain,
There is nought to gain or keep
Thereafter, and all is vain.
Should we wait to see Love die?

Sweetheart, of the joys men reap
We have reaped; ’tis time to rest.
Why should we wake but to weep?
Sleep and forgetting is best—
These are the flowers of sleep.

“Passion and Poppies” by Jennings Carmichael

My love, the poppies are dead and cold
In the garden beds to-day,
O, think of the white and scarlet and gold,
That bloomed so yesterday!
White and gold-tho’ the red were the best,
You used to nestle them in your breast.

My love, the poppies have burnt away
On lawn and garden bed,
I gather no delicate flower to-day
To flame on a dusky head;
I pray in vain for the trysting night,
To bring you back with your poppies bright!

Passion and poppies! -the seeds are thick,
And fall in the passing wind,
The earth with blossom unborn is quick, —
Morrows will surely find
Again the gold and the white and red,
As pure and sweet as those that are dead.

Ah me! for passion and poppy flowers,
The scarlet, white, and gold!
I hate the sight of the wind-swept showers
Of leaves, that fall to the mould :
For they they die not among the rest,
The poppies red you wore on your breast!

young blond lady in unique clothes standing in a field of poppies and wheat

“Poppies on the Wheat” by Helen Hunt

“Along Ancona’s hills the shimmering heat,
A tropic tide of air, with ebb and flow
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow.”

LIKE flashing seas of green, which toss and beat
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro
To mark the shore.

The farmer does not know
That 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 remain
Perhaps to me in which, though bread be sweet
No 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.

“Poppy Song” by Elsa Gidlow

Love in a garden of poppies
Playing at living life,
Love with smiles in her speech,
Love dancing at dawn
In a garden of flushed pink poppies.

Love, unsmiling now,
At noon in the garden of poppies,
With a laugh under her eyelids,
Fear deep in her eyes,
And tangled with her hair,
Sighs and a struggling joy.

Love, with a dim, strained face,
At night in the garden of poppies,
Her lips crushing the bloom
From the fairest flower there.
Love drunk with the wine
She has drawn from the poppy’s heart:
Love with death at her breasts.

Love at the end of night
Shaded by drooping poppies;
Love with scattered hair
And strange stains on her lips.
Love with death at her breasts.

“Poppy And Mandragora” by Madison Julius Cawein

Let us go far from here!
Here there is sadness in the early year:
Here sorrow waits where joy went laughing late:
The sicklied face of heaven hangs like hate
Above the woodland and the meadowland;
And Spring hath taken fire in her hand
Of frost and made a dead bloom of her face,
Which was a flower of marvel once and grace,
And sweet serenity and stainless glow.
Delay not. Let us go.

Let us go far away
Into the sunrise of a fairer May:
Where all the nights resign them to the moon,
And drug their souls with odor and soft tune,
And tell their dreams in starlight: where the hours
Teach immortality with fadeless flowers;
And all the day the bee weights down the bloom,
And all the night the moth shakes strange perfume,
Like music, from the flower-bells’ affluence.
Let us go far from hence.

Why should we sit and weep,
And yearn with heavy eyelids still to sleep?
Forever hiding from our hearts the hate,-
Death within death,-life doth accumulate,
Like winter snows along the barren leas
And sterile hills, whereon no lover sees
The crocus limn the beautiful in flame;
Or hyacinth and jonquil write the name
Of Love in fire, for each passer-by.
Why should we sit and sigh?

We will not stay and long,
Here where our souls are wasting for a song;
Where no bird sings; and, dim beneath the stars,
No silvery water strikes melodious bars;
And in the rocks and forest-covered hills
No quick-tongued echo from her grotto fills
With eery syllables the solitude-
The vocal image of the voice that wooed-
She, of wild sounds the airy looking-glass.
Our souls are tired, alas!

What should we say to her?-
To Spring, who in our hearts makes no sweet stir:
Who looks not on us nor gives thought unto:
Too busy with the birth of flowers and dew,
And vague gold wings within the chrysalis;
Or Love, who will not miss us; had no kiss
To give your soul or the sad soul of me,
Who bound our hearts to her in poesy,
Long since, and wear her badge of service still.-
Have we not served our fill?

We will go far away.
Song will not care, who slays our souls each day
With the dark daggers of denying eyes,
And lips of silence!… Had she sighed us lies,
Not passionate, yet falsely tremulous,
And lent her mouth to ours in mockery; thus
Smiled from calm eyes as if appreciative;
Then, then our love had taught itself to live
Feeding itself on hope, and recompense.
But no!-So let us hence.

So be the Bible shut
Of all her Beauty, and her wisdom but
A clasp for memory! We will not seek
The light that came not when the soul was weak
With longing, and the darkness gave no sign
Of star-born comfort. Nay! why kneel and whine
Sad psalms of patience and hosannas of
Old hope and dreary canticles of love?-
Let us depart, since, as we long supposed,
For us God’s book was closed.

a field of red flowers next to a wooden fence at sunset

From “The Village” by George Crabbe

There poppies nodding, mock the hope of toil,
There the blue bugloss paints the sterile soil;
Hardy and high, above the slender sheaf,
The shiny mallow waves her silky leaf;
O’er the young shoot the charlock throws a shade,
And the wild tare clings round the sickly blade ;
With mingled tints the rocky coasts abound,
And a sad splendor vainly shines around.

“Decision of the Flower” by L. E. L.

AND with scarlet Poppies, around like a bower,
The maiden found hermystic flower.
“ Now, gentle flower, I pray thee, tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well:
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue,
Now I number the leaves formy lot—
He loves not — he loves me he loves me not—
He loves me- yes, thou last leaf, yes—
I’ll pluck thee notfor the last sweet guess!
He loves me!” — “ Yes,” a dear voice sighed,
And her lover stands by Margaret’s side.

“Songs And Chorus of the Flowers” by Leigh Hunt


We are slumbering Poppies,
Lords of Lethe downs,
Some awake, and some asleep,
Sleeping in our crowns.
What perchance our dreams may know,
Let our serious beauty show.

Central depth of purple,
Leaves more bright than rose ;
Who shall tell what brightest thought
Out of darkest grows?
Who, through what funereal pain,
Souls to love and peace attain?

Visions aye are on us,
Unto power;
Pluto’s always-setting sun ,
And Proserpiné’s bower;
There, like bees, the pale souls come
For our drink, with drowsy hum.

Taste, ye mortals, also;
Milky-hearted, we;—
Taste, but with a reverent care ,
Active- patient be.
Too much gladness brings to gloom
Those who on the gods presume.

Beautiful young brunette girl wearing a head wreath in the poppy field

From “The Wreath” by William Peters

Blest Flowers! There breathes not one unfraught
With lessons sweet and new;
The Rose, in Taste’s own garden wrought;
The Pansy, nurse of tender thought;
The Wall-flower, tried and true;
The purple Heath, so lone and fair,
(0 how unlike the world’s vain glare!)
The Daisy, so contently gay,
Opening her eyelids with the day;
The Gorse-bloom, never sad or sere,
But golden bright,
As gems of night,
And fresh and fragrant all the year;
Each leaf, each bud of classic lore,
Oak, Hyacinth, and Floramore;
The Cowslip, graceful in her woe;
The Hawthorn’s smile, the Poppy’s glow,
This ripe with balm for present sorrow,
And that with raptures for to-morrow.

“The Poppies in the Corn” by James Rigg

POPPIES, Poppies, all the way,—
To right or left, where’er I stray:
Nor flirting high, nor all forlorn,
But flaunting ‘ mong the vernal corn!
Upon a rustic gate I lean,
To quaff the fragrance of the bean ;
But through the corn my charméd eye
Doth catch the Poppy’s scarlet dye.

I ask myself this question plain—
“What doth this flower amongst the grain?
Why are its fickle petals rife
Beside the ancient staff of life?
Its rosy hues-though fading fast
Flame brighter by the green contrast.”

Ah, types of vain extravagance!
Amid the sturdy grain you dance
But one short day. Then wan and weak—
The crimson faded from each cheek,
Your glory spent like setting sun
What praise or blessings have ye won?
While, marching to some merry strain,
Men carry home the golden grain.

And there are human Poppies, sure—
We call them rich ; but they are poor!
Their motto ” Take, ” but never ” Give;”
For pomp and show they only live.
Corn Labour dyes their garments gay,
Yet fleet and fitful is their day.

“To The Corn-Flower” by James Rigg

DECKED in dainty frills of blue,
‘Mong the Corn you flirt and play :
And, for lover, none will do,
Save the Scarlet Poppy gay!

Complement’ry-blue and red
Ye each other’s charms enhance ;
When to blending were ye bred ?
Long, long ago ; and not by chance!

Pretty children’s willing feet
Dare not roam where you do grow;
For among the farmer’s wheat
Quite secure your blossoms blow.

As a lovely lady fair
Smiteth from her castle walls,
And no love-sick knight may dare
Follow where her footstep falls:

So, from out the golden corn,
Thou dost throw thy azure charms;
And, until of beauty shorn,
Thou art safe from rude alarms.

an old dilapidated castle and a field of red poppies

“An Old Castle” by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

All is dead here:
Poppies are red here,
Vines in my lady’s chamber grow—
If ‘t was her chamber
Where they clamber
Up from the poisonous weeds below.
All is dead here,
Joy is fled here;
Let us hence. ‘Tis the end of all—
The gray arch crumbles,
And totters, and tumbles,
And Silence sits in the banquet hall.

“Consider the Lilies of the Field” by Christina G. Rossetti

Flowers preach to us if we will hear : —
The rose saith in the dewy morn:
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn,
The poppy saith amid the corn;
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made;
Men scent our fragrance on the air
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.

From “Flowers” by Catherine H. Waterman (ESLING, J. F.)

What brings the bright and shining leaf,
The scarlet Poppy wears ?
A consolation for our grief,
A solace for our cares ;
The ancients wreathed the brows of sleep,
With the rich Poppy flowers,
For slumber dries the eyes that weep,
And pictures happy hours ;
And in its scarlet blossom rests
A healing balm for wounded breasts.

Yes, flowers have tones — God gave to each
A language of its own,
And bade the simple blossom teach
Where’er its seeds are sown ;
His voice is on the mountain height,
And by the river’s side,
Where flowers blush in glowing light,
In lowliness or pride ;
We feel o’er all the blooming sod,
It is the language of our God.

a girl on the field wearing a wreath and holding a bouquet of poppies

“The Poppy” by H. G. Adams

I WANDER’D forth one August morn,
When skylarks trilled their matin tune,
Beside a field of waving corn,
With scarlet Poppies thickly strewn;

Where’er from out the fruitful ground
The bending stalks most thickly sprung,
There did the Poppies most abound,
And there their flaunting streamers hung:

I likened them, those Poppies red,
To Pride. My reason for’t was this
Pride e’er is gaily raimented,
And groweth most where plenty is.

“The Poppy” by Horace Smith

THE man who roams by wild-flower’d ditch or hedge
Skirting the mead,
Or treads the cornfield path-along its edge,
May mark a weed,
Whose ragged scarlet gear might well denote
A road-side beggar in a soldier’s coat.

Hence! terms misplaced, and thoughts disparaging!
O Poppy Flower!
Thou art the Croesus of the field-its kingA mystic power,
With emblems deep and secret blessings fraught,
And potent properties that baffle thought.

When thy hues catch, amid the growing corn?
The traveller’s eye,
“Weeds! weeds!” he cries, and shakes his head in scorn:
But when on high
The grain uplifts its harvest-bearing crest,
The Poppy’s hidden, and the taunt suppress’d.

So, when our early state is poor and mean,
Our portion small,
Our scarlet- blushing moral weeds are seen,
And blamed by all;
But as we rise in rank we win repute,
Our faults gold-hidden, our accusers mute.

Why does the Poppy with its chaliced store
Of opiate rare,
Flush in the fields, and grace the hovel door,
But to declare
That, from the City’s palaces forlorn,
Sleep flies to bless the cottage in the corn?

And Oh! how precious is the Anodyne
Its cells exude,
Charming the mind’s disquietude malign
To peaceful mood,
Soothing the body’s anguish with its balm,
Lulling the restless into slumbers calm.

What tho’ the reckless suicide—oppress’d
By fell despair,
Turns to a poison- cup thy chalice , bless’d
With gifts so rare ;
And basely flying, while the brave remain,
Deserts the post God gave him to maintain.

Such art perverted does but more enhance
That higher power,
Which, planting by the corn—(man’s sustenance,)
The Poppy flower,
Both in one soil, one atmosphere their breath,
Rears, side by side, the means of life and death!

Who, who can mark thee, Poppy, when the air
Fans thy lips bright,
Nor move his own in sympathetic prayer
To Him whose might
Combined the powers—O thought-bewildering deed!
Of death—sleep—health—oblivion—in a weed!

From “I Knew A Poet” by Rennell Rodd

These that have lain in the poppy-flowers waving,
Grown where the fields turn wilderness and bare,
These with the look back and the lotus craving,
These with the thin self-echo of despair;

These ever straining after days that were not,
These with their reckless abandonment of youth,
These that restrain not, wonder not, revere not,
These are no poets, or I know no Truth.

Silhouette of a woman in a hat on a poppy field

“Poppies” by Angelina W. Wray

But bright and still in the noonday heat
The poppies blaze and glow,
Fluted and ruffled, fold on fold,
With crinkled petals, and hearts of gold,
And delicate buds below.
So drowsily sweet is the poppies’ breath,
In the slumbrous silence deep,
That a thousand idle visions swift
Float up from the shores of sleep.

And fancy follows the perfume strange,
As it drifts on the passing breeze,
Over Eastern deserts of burning sands,
Through the sultry climes of the far-off lands ,
Hemmed in by shining seas.

O fair flame-flowers with hearts of light,
More splendid than noonday’s glow,
Burn on, burn on, in your radiance bright,
With torches swinging slow.
Strange hints of a life we have lived before,
Strange hints of a life to be,
Adream of the beauty forever past,
A dream of the beauty to come at last,
You have brought like a gift to me.

“Why Are You Wandering Here?” by James Kenney

“Why are you wandering here, I pray?”
An old man asked a maid one day.-
“Looking for poppies, so bright and red,
Father, ” said she, “ I’m hither led. ”
“Fie, fie !” she heard him cry,
“Poppies ‘ tis known, to all who rove,
Grow in the field, and not in the grove.”

“Tell me,” again the old man said,
“Why are you loitering here, fair maid ?”.
“The nightingale’s song, so sweet and clear,
Father, ” said she, “ I’ın come to hear.”
“Fie, fie ! ” she heard lim cry,
” Nightingales all , so people say,
Warble by night, and not by day.”
May, qneen of blossoms
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead!
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers ?
Thou bast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
Thou hast the golden bee
Ripened with fire ;
And many thousand more
Songsters that thee adore,
Filling earth’s grassy floor
With new desire.
The sage looked grave, the maiden shy,
When Lubin jumped o’er the stile hard by;
The sage looked graver, the maid more glum,
Lubin, he twiddled bis finger and thumb.
“Fie, fie !” was the old man’s cry;
Poppies like these, I owi) , are rare,
And of such nightingales’ songs beware!”

“White Poppies” by Mary A. Barr

O mystic, mighty flower whose frail white leaves
Silky and crumpled like a banner furled,
Shadow the black mysterious seed that gives
The drop that soothes and lulls a restless world;
Nepenthes for our woe, yet swift to kill,
Holding the knowledge of both good and ill.

The rose for beauty may outshine thee far,
The lily hold herself like some sweet saint
Apart from earthly griefs, as is a star
Apart from any fear of earthly taint;
The snowy poppy like an angel stands,
With consolation in her open hands.

Ere History was born, the poet sung
How godlike Thone knew thy compelling power,
And ancient Ceres, by strange sorrows wrung,
Sought sweet oblivion from thy healing flower.
Giver of sleep! Lord of the Land of Dreams!
O simple weed, thou art not what man deems.

The clear-eyed Greeks saw oft their god of sleep
Wandering about through the black midnight hours,
Soothing the restless couch with slumbers deep,
And scattering thy medicated flowers,
Till hands were folded for their final rest,
Clasping White Poppies o’er a pulseless breast.

We have a clearer vision; every hour
Kind hearts and hands the poppy juices mete,
And panting sufferers bless its kindly power,
And weary ones invoke its peaceful sleep.
Health has its Rose, and Grape and joyful Palm,
The Poppy to the sick is wine and balm.

I sing the Poppy! The frail snowy weed!
The flower of mercy! that within its heart
Doth keep a drop serene” for human need,
A drowsy balm for every bitter smart.
For happy hours the rose will idly blow—
The Poppy hath a charm for pain and woe.

poppy flowers, clear blue sky and sunlight in the morning

“Morning” by Charles Tennyson

It is the fairest sight in Nature’s realms,
To see on summer morning, dewy-sweet,
That very type of freshness, the green wheat,
Surging thro’ shadows of the hedgerow elms;
How the eye revels in the many shapes
And colours which the risen day restores!
How the wind blows the poppy’s scarlet capes
About his urn ! and how the lark upsoars!
Not like the timid corn- craik scudding fast
From his own voice, he with him takes his song
Heavenward, then, striking sideways, shoots along,
Happy as sailor boy that, from the mast,
Runs out upon the yard -arm , till at last
He sinks into his nest, those clover tufts among.

“The Poppy” by Alice Archer Sewall James

THERE is a poppy growing
In my city’s little square ;
Between its red lips glowing,
The fields of Rome are there.

The charm of the Campagna
Has lured me away
To the long white heat of grasses
That whistle and sweep and sway.

And in the cool, clean shadow
Of an empty little tomb,
I lie and study the arabesques
That haunt the plastered gloom.

The poppies are linked with satyrs
Who dance by one and two,
And lean with lizards into their cups
To sip a drop of dew.

From out the cool, clean shadow
Of the tomb deserted and gay,
I see the living poppies
In the long grass sweep and sway.

And from out my office window,
Above the city square,
I see the exile poppy,
And the fields of Rome are there.

“The Poppy” by Francis Thompson

SUMMER set lip to earth’s bosom bare,
And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,
And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,
And hot as a swinkèd gipsy is,
And drowsed in sleepy savageries,
With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss.

A child and man paced side by side,
Treading the skirts of eventide;
But between the clasp of his hand and hers
Lay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.

She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,
And saw the sleeping gipsy there;
And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,
With—’Keep it, long as you live! ‘ —to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,
Trembled up from a bath of tears;
And joy, like a mew sea- rock’d apart,
Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see,
That-as kindled by its own fervency
The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:

And suddenly ‘twixt his hand and hers
He knew the twenty wither’d years—
No flower, but twenty shrivell’d years.

‘Was never such thing until this hour,’
Low to his heart he said ; ‘ the flower
Of sleep brings wakening to me,
And of oblivion memory.’

‘Was never this thing to me, ‘ he said,
‘ Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!’
And again to his own heart very low:
‘O child ! I love, for I love and know;

‘But you, who love nor know at all
The diverse chambers in Love’s guest- hall,
Where some rise early, few sit long:
In how differing accents hear the throng
His great Pentecostal tongue;

‘Who know not love from amity,
Nor my reported self from me ;
A fair fit gift is this, meseems,
You give this withering flower of dreams.

‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,
Do you know what the days will do to you?
To your Love and you what the days will do,
O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

a castle in the field of scarlet poppies

“The Castle of the Poppies” by Dorothy Wellesley

ACROSS the jagged mountain lands,
Beyond the shores and shaken strands,
The Castle of the Poppies stands.

Among the strange fantastic trees,
Which throw slight shadowy traceries
Along its walls and terraces,

It stands amid the crimson flowers,
Which hang tall grown like weeping showers,
Thro’out the sleepy summer hours,

‘Tis silent as a place of tombs ;
Few dwellers move within its rooms ;
Only across the twilight glooms

There steals the strain of melodies
Along the poppied terraces,
And thro’ the suffocating trees.

The poppies droop towards the sun
In heavy mantles one by one,
Until the cruel day is done.

Their purple pollen with the dusk
Is wafted through the air like musk,
And mingled with the poppy-husk.

It blinds the eyes and dulls the brain,
Compels the soul like one in pain,
Who dreams but may not rise again.

The seven rivers girdle wide
The Poppy Castle every side,
And wander down towards the tide.

Their streams are crimson with the blood
Of poppies blown across the wood,
And past the sunless solitude.

The petals travel to the sea,
(For they are lost and fallen free,)
Lightly and very joyously.

But round the castle no foot falls ;
Only a wood-bird loudly calls,
Whilst thro’ the measured intervals

The poppies bloom and fall apace
Across the castle’s furrowed face,
Battered by blows in many a place.

The towers and the turrets glow
Through each red sunset, while below
The poppies murmur to and fro.

The petals of the poppies lie
Like red wine spilled wantonly ;
Like shuddering fires against the sky,

They twine about the castle tall,
Filling the crannies of the wall,
Luring the stones to shake and fall.

They hang about the mullioned gate,
Like the strong bloody hands of Fate
Which hold the spirit desolate.

They clutch the towers and compel
The living dead, who therein dwell
To hold dark colloquies with Hell!

The Idler of the Dusk who strays
Along the sombre forest ways,
Amid the throbbing amber days,

Shall meet the pollen floating by,
Which dulls the soul and dims the eye,
So that alone and fearfully,

He wanders there with callous brain,
Like one who falls asleep for pain,
And dreams, but dares not rise again.

“Invocation” by Dorothy Wellesley

SEEK not the pilgrim dole
Thou love-anointed soul,
But come to mine abode
O flame of God!

Set thy pure passion free ;
Love and love’s rhapsody,
Love and love’s rapture sweet
Shall stay thy feet.

Throughout the gilded hours
Shine the acacia flowers,
Lo, love is white as these
Bejewelled trees.

Set thy pure passion free,
That love as red may be
As poppy fields that sweep
The long hill-steep.

Thou art the afterlight,
The silent handed night
Who lighteth the white star
That burns afar!

Thou art the rustling leaves
About the morning eaves,
Thou art the melancholy
Of the wind’s cry.

The incense of the musk
Which stealeth thro’ the dusk,
The evening amethyst
Hid in the mist.

The lilies in the dew,
Stained to a copper hue
By sunset thro’ the trees.
Lo ! thou art these!

Thou art the furtive theme
Haunting a waking dream ,
Hid in the boundary deep
Of life and sleep.

The vast unspoken fire
Of vagabond desire,
That knows no human home
Where it shall come.

I may not know nor see
Thy soul’s infinity,
Yet come to mine abode,
Sweet flame of God!

“The Joy of the Hills” by Edwin Markham

I ride on the mountain tops, I ride ;
I have found my life and am satisfied.
Onward I ride in the blowing oats,
Checking the field-lark’s rippling notes—
Lightly I sweep
From steep to steep:
Over my head through the branches high
Come glimpses of a rushing sky;
The tall oats brush my horse’s flanks;
Wild poppies crowd on the sunny banks;
A bee booms out of the scented grass;
A jay laughs with me as I pass.

I ride on the hills, I forgive, I forget
Life’s hoard of regret―
All the terror and pain
Of the chafing chain.

Grind on, O cities, grind :
I leave you a blur behind.
I am lifted elate—the skies expand :
Here the world’s heaped gold is a pile of
Let them weary and work in their narrow
I ride with the voices of waterfalls!

I swing on as one in a dream—I swing
Down the airy hollows, I shout, I sing!
The world is gone like an empty word:
My body’s a bough in the wind, my heart a

a lovely old road with scarlet poppies on the side

“An Old Road” by Edwin Markham

A host of poppies, a flight of swallows;
Aflurry of rain, and a wind that follows
Shepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows,
For the forest is shaken and thinned.

Over my head are the firs for rafter;
The crows blow south, and my heart goes after;
I kiss my hands to the world with laughter
Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind?

Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather!
How the barley breaks and blows together!
Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather
Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!

“In Poppy Fields” by Edwin Markham

Here the poppy hosts assemble:
How they startle, how they tremble!
All their royal hoods unpinned
Blow out lightly in the wind.
Here is gold to labor for ;
Here is pillage worth a war.

Men that in the cities grind,
Come! before the heart is blind.

“Two Taverns” by Edwin Markham

I remember how I lay
On a bank a summer day,
Peering into weed and flower:
Watched a poppy all one hour;
Watched it till the air grew chill
In the darkness of the hill;
Till I saw a wild bee dart
Out of the cold to the poppy’s heart;
Saw the petals gently spin,
And shut the little lodger in.
Then I took the quiet road
To my own secure abode.
All night long his tavern hung;
Now it rested, now it swung;
I asleep in steadfast tower,
He asleep in stirring flower;
In our hearts the same delight
In the hushes of the night;
Over us both the same dear care
As we slumbered unaware.

young beautiful red head in poppy field

“Wild Poppies” by Grace Hibbard

BEAUTIFUL, golden wild poppies,
That nod in the soft, balmy air,
Well were you chosen the emblem
Of the land of all lands most fair.

Who planted you, golden poppies?
Were you here when the world was new?
Were you painted by the morning?
Do you mirror the sunset’s hue?

Do you grow from seeds of bright gold
That are hidden away from sight?
Are you stars come down from the sky
That shine in the radiant light?

Are you golden cups o’erflowing
With jewels of raindrops and dew?
Why are you so constant-hearted
To the State that has chosen you?

With gold you carpet the meadows,
Like the gold-paved “ Land of the Blest,”
Wild poppies -the flower emblem
Of the State of the Golden West.

“A Dream of Poppies” by Ella M. Sexton

BROWN hills long parched, long lifting to the blue
Of summer’s brilliant sky but russet hue
Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind’s sweep,
Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep
The first rains bid your poppies rise anew;
And trills the lark exultant summons, too.
How swift at Fancy’s beck those gay crowds leap
To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep
For welcome first ; then hooded buds, pale gold,
Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold
Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and till
A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill
And breaks in joyous floods as children hold
Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill.

Short Poppy Poems

young lady standing with red poppies in her hair

“Golden Poppies” by Grace Hibbard

O land of sunshine by the sea,
Where golden poppies grow,
Fair flowers crown thee all the year,
white blossoms are thy snow.

“White Poppy” by Fracastorio

There poppies white and violets,
Alcippus on the altar sets
Of quiet sleep; and weaves a crown
To bring the gentle godhead down.

“The Poppy” by Alice Archer Sewall James

The poppies are linked with satyrs
Who dance by one and two,
And lean with lizards into their cups
To sip a drop of dew.

From out the cool, clean shadow
Of the tomb deserted and gay,
I see the living poppies
In the long grass sweep and sway.

And from out my office window,
Above the city square,
I see the exile poppy,
And the fields of Rome are there.

lady with freckles and red hair in red long dress holding a poppy flower

“Two” by Carl Sandburg

MEMORY of you is … a blue spear of flower.
I cannot remember the name of it.
Alongside a bold dripping poppy is fire and silk.
And they cover you.

“Poppies” by Madison Julius Cawein

Summer met Sleep at sunset,
Dreaming within the south,
Drugged with his soul’s deep slumber,
Red with her heart’s hot drouth,
These are the drowsy kisses
She pressed upon his mouth.

“The Sea-Poppy” by Robert Bridges

A POPPY grows upon the shore
Bursts her twin cup in summer late:
Her leaves are glaucous green and hoar,
Her petals yellow, delicate.
Oft to her cousins turns her thought,
In wonder if they care that she
Is fed with spray for dew, and caught
By every gale that sweeps the sea.
She has no lovers like the Red
That dances with the noble Corn:
Her blossoms on the waves are shed,
Where she sits shivering and forlorn.

Beautiful young princess sitting in a field of poppies

“Flower Children: Miss California Poppy” by Elizabeth Gordon

MISS California Poppy said
She liked the sunshine on her head,
Though her friends might think her foolish,
Thought this country rather coolish.

“Flower Children: Scarlet Poppy” by Elizabeth Gordon

SCARLET POPPY in the wheat,
Said she ’d like some grains to eat,
But when Head Wheat gave her some
She made believe ‘t was chewing-gum.

“The Poppy” by Mrs. Robinson

From the Poppy I have ta’en
Mortals balm, and mortals bane!
Juice, that creeping through the heart,
Deadens every sense of smart.

lady in white dress holding a bouquet of red poppy flowers in fields

“White Poppy” by Warton

Few know that elegance of soul refined
Whose soft sensation feels a quicker joy
From melancholy’s scenes, than the dull pride
or tasteless splendour and magnificence
Can e’er afford.

“The Sweet-Pea” by L. E. L

O’er which Love has breathed a power and spell
The truth of whispering hope to tell.

And with scarlet poppies around like a bower,
Found the maiden her mystic flower.
Now, gentle flower, I pray thee tell
If my lover loves me, and loves me well;
So may the fall of the morning dew
Keep the sun from fading thy tender blue.

“Griefs” by Edwin Markham

The rains of winter scourged the weald,
For days they darkened on the field :
Now, where the wings of winter beat,
The poppies ripple in the wheat.

And pitiless griefs came thick and fast
Life’s bough was naked in the blast—
Till silently amid the gloom
They blew the wintry heart to bloom.

enchanting long haired brunette woman stands in white dress in a field of red poppies

“The Changeless Year” by Charlotte Perkins Stetson

STILL the land is with blossoms infolding,
Still the sky burneth blue in its deeps,
Time noddeth ‘mid poppies all golden,
And memory sleeps.

“A Summer Idyl” by Helen M. Carpenter

WHEN bright sunbeams glance and play,
The golden poppies nod and sway
Their silken petals by the way;
Closing nightly,
Petals tightly,
Sweet sleeping till the dawning day.

“Cheerful Golden Poppies” by Jane B. Potter

LIKE the daisy of old Chaucer,
Or like Wordsworth’s daffodils,
Seem the cheerful golden poppies
That blossom on our hills.

a young beautiful lady sitting on the ground amidst poppies and grass

“Frémont” by Joaquin Miller

HERO, Scholar, cavalier,
Bayard of thy brave new land,
Poppies for thy bed and bier,
Dreamful poppies foot and hand.

Poppies garmented in gold—
Poppies of the land you won;
Love and gratitude untold—
Poppies -peace -the setting sun!

“Mamma’s Poppies” dictated by Morris Wagner (five years old)

A HOUSE made of little poppies,
A beautiful blue sky,
And the sunshine that loves
thee and thy
Poppies sweet on the lips of
kisses bright ;
Love is happy love repeating:
While poppies go to sleep at
And open their beautiful gold
eyes in morning light,
And God is all.

“California Poppies” by Alice Fishe Todd

DREAMING of the hills, I ween,
Where they blossomed, the grasses between,
And laughingly nodded “How do you do?”
Doffing their little caps of green
To challenge even the brightest sunbeam,
My poppies, I mean.

smiling blond woman holding a bouquet of red poppies in a poppy field

“Plain Language to Bret Harte” by Chas. S. Green

BUT what kills me plumb dead
Is to see where he’s writ
That our poppies is red,
Which they ain’t red a bit,
But the flamingest orange and yellow,
Oh! Bret, how could you forgit!

“Origin of the Golden Poppies” by Grace Hibbard

AWAKE, O golden poppies! for your king,
The Sun, is coming from the bright’ning east.
The lances of his guard flash on the hills,
Awake, O flowers, for the royal feast!

All the long fervid summer day he’ll sit
A kingly presence on his azure throne,
Attended by the fleecy clouds, his messengers,
Monarch of sky, and sea, and earth, alone.

Ye are his children—in the long ago
Because he loved the earth—with his own hand
He cast a meteor. Its fragments were
Bright, shining poppy-seeds, of Sunset Land.

“How the Poppies Came” by Sadie B. Metcalfe

THE angels saw one region where
More sunshine lingered than its share ;
And came with each a heaven-white cup,
To dip the yellow surplus up .
No sooner brimmed with it—behold,
The cups themselves were turned to gold!
And here they lie, upturning still
Their gold for golden skies to fill.

Poems About Poppies and Love

a beautiful red haired woman looking up among red poppies in the field

From “The Moated Grange” by Madison Julius Cawein

The sunset-crimson poppies are departed,
The purple-centered, sultry-smelling poppies,
The drowsy-hearted,
That burnt like flames along the low yew
All heavy headed,
The ruby-cupped and opium -brimming poppies,
That slumber wedded,
The sunset-crimson poppies are departed.

Oh, heavy, heavy are the hours that fall ,
The lonesome hours of the lonely days!
No poppy strews oblivion by the wall,
Where lone the last pod sways,
Oblivion that was hers of old that happier made
her days.

Oh, weary, weary is the sky o’er all,
The days that creep, the hours that crawl,
And weary all the ways
She leans her face against the lichened wall,
The mildewed wall, the crumbling wall,
And dreams, the long, long days,
Of one who will not come again whatever may

“Moly” by Madison Julius Cawein

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings
A head of sultry slumber and aroma;
And by the path , whereon the blown rose flings
Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a
White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;
Between the pansy fire of the west,
And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,
This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep —
Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,
And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reap
The golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;
Let me behold how gladness gives the whole
The transformed countenance of my own soul;
Between the sunset and the risen moon,
Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company :
The spirit of the dew ; the heart of laughter
That haunts the wind ; the soul of melody
That sings within the stream, that reaches after
The flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress :
These of themselves shall shape my happiness,
A visible presence I shall lean upon,
Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;
The worm-pierced fruit fall , sicklied to its syrup;
How joy, begotten ‘ twixt a sigh and sigh,
Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup :
Remembering how within the hollow lute
Sweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;
And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,
Hope with his golden hair.

“The House of Song” by Madison Julius Cawein

Unto the portal of the House of Song,
Symbols of wrong and emblems of unrest,
And mottoes of despair and envious jest,
And stony masks of scorn and hate belong.

Who enters here shall feel his soul denied
All welcome ; where the chiselled form of Love
Stares down in marble on the shrine above
The tomb of Beauty where he dreamed and died.

Who enters here shall know no poppy flowers
Of Rest, or harp-tones of serene Content ;
Only sad ghosts of music and of scent
Shall mock his mind with their remembered powers.

Here must he wait till striving Patience carves
His name upon the century-storied floor;
His heart’s blood staining one dim pane the more
In Fame’s high casement while he sings and starves.

Young beautiful woman lying in a poppy field

“The Poppy” by Ludwig Uhland (Alexander Platt, Translator)

Upon the western breezes
The poppies wave and shine ;
With these the dream-god pleases
His sleeping brow to twine :
Now, bright and purple, waving
With evening’s crimson glow,
Now pale as moonlight paving
The wintry fleece of snow.

“Take heed”, they said, “the sleeper
That wears a poppy crown,
To sombrous realms, and deeper,
Is dreamily borne down.
And even, when he waketh,
The spell- work scarcely ends,
For shadowy forms he taketh
His lov’d and dearest friends.”

In life’s young morning hours,
I, too, was thus bested;
Amid a vale of flowers
I laid my weary head:
Then softly, in a minute,
Arose their fragrant steam,
Life look’d a picture in it,
The Real became a dream!

Since then, all else misgiving,
No thought but this will do,
My pictur’d world’s the living,
My dream’s the pure and true.
The shades, that flit before me,
Are clear as stars to ken;
Wave, poet-poppy, o’er me,
For ever wave as then.

“Lilies and Poppies” by Edward Burrough Brownlow

White lilies languish on their graceful stems,
Red poppies laugh amid the growing corn;
Lilies at poppies look with lofty scorn
And cherish dear their own chaste diadems;
Poppies at lilies scoff, their scarlet gems
Blaze in the splendor of a life, love-born
And love-begetting, and do most adorn
Those whom love’s beauty unto death condemns.
Lay the white blossoms on the lowly bier
Of her who passed away, so pure and young,
Fling the red passion-poisoned flowers among
Her syren-sisters who live sinning here.
O! star-souled lily ! white for none to blame.
O! blood-stained poppy ! red with blush of shame.

“Golden Poppies” by Klinos Falmer

GLORIOUS little seeds of sunshine!
Broadcast sown by ” Old King Sol,”
Bursting into bud and blossom
On hill and dell and wayside wall,

Like stray sunbeams, light the valleys,
Deck with smiles Dame Nature’s face,
As she folds her golden treasures,
In her tender, warm embrace.

Fresh from bath of dewdrops beaming,
Graceful sways each sunny gem,
Radiant petals brightly gleaming,
Dell and hillside diadem.

Now they don their pretty nightcaps.
Folding up each dainty leaf,
Just before the hour of sunset,
In a shining, golden sheaf.

Pretty little sleepy poppy!
Dreams of sunny lands are thine,
Garlands of thy radiant blossoms
‘Round our Golden Gate shall twine.

We will cull thee for an emblem
Of our State- so fair and free.
From thy golden cup of beauty
Health we’ll drink-to her and thee.

Silhouette of a beautiful woman in the poppy field at sunset

“California Poppies” by Effie L. Phillips

OH, the poppies in their golden beauty vying
With the sunshine on the hills and valleys lying,
Nodding gayly to the breeze
Wafted from the summer seas,
Breezes filled with sounds of springtime softly sighing!
Winds that tell
Where poppies dwell,
On the mesa where the sun
Paints them brightly, one by one,
Winds that whisper, light and low,
Where the sweet wild poppies grow,
Wrapping in a golden glow
Rugged feet of noble mountain
That encircles like a fountain
Smiling valleys down below.

Oh, the yellow poppies, with their petals shining,
Mists of early morning on their satin lining.
Mountain streamlet finds the way
Toward these blossoms, golden, gay;
Belted bee and butterfly on their nectar dining!
Larks that sing,
Upon the wing,
With their yellow breasts a thrill
With a beauty softer still.
Moon and stars and night-winds cold
Mingle magic with the mold,
Like those fairy tales of old.
Southern winds and warm rains falling
With sun-fairy’s ardent calling,
Weave these poppy-fields of gold.

When the radiant beauty of the sunset dying
Gilds the purple hilltops in the soft air lying,
Then the poppies fold in sleep,
Perfumed zephyrs round them creep,
Hum of bug and beetle on the warm air crying.
Night birds call
And wild birds small
Round the sleeping blossoms drift,
Till the long night shadows lift ;
‘Neath the morning’s rosy light
Fades the coverlet of night,
And the merry sun-rays beaming
Wake the poppies from their dreaming,
Nodding in fresh beauty, golden bright.

“The Poppy” by A. Williams

Lo! the poppies’ rich golden crown,
From regal heights shot shimmering down,
Wild one, voiced by all together,
Native queen o’ th’ spangled heather,
Sure nowhere else beyond our seas
Were known to flourish gems like these :
Rich as color of golden ore,
Pale or deep as its varied store,
As if its tender rootlets drew
From hidden mines its gorgeous hue,
To bring the treasure trove to view,
Native queen of the Golden Shore,
Gold was the gown, the crown she wore.

“Poppies of Wickenburg” by Sharlot M. Hall

WHERE Coronado’s men of old
Sought the Pecos’ fabled gold
Vainly, many weary days,
Now the land is all ablaze.

Where the desert breezes stir,
Earth, the old sun-worshiper,
Lifts her shining chalices
Up to tempt the priestly bees.

Every golden cup is filled
With a nectar sun-distilled;
And the perfume, Nature’s prayer,
Sweetens all the summer air.

Poppies, poppies, who would stay
O’er the mountains far away,
Seeking still Quivira’s gold
When your wealth is ours to hold?

A young lady sitting among red poppies with the ocean view

“Poppies by the Sea” from Lippincott’s Magazine September, 1892.

BESIDE the sea, above, below
The wrinkled sun-burnt crags that bar
The ocean’s onset like a foe,
And wild as wind and waters are,
The careless yellow poppies grow.

As tremulous as stars that grow
In fairer fields of light afar.
Cliff-born, but beautiful, they blow
Beside the sea.

O’er many a rain-worn rent and scar,
Their rootlets tenderly they throw.
Nor storm nor solitude may mar,
Nor mists that wander to and fro,
The freedom that the poppies know
Beside the sea.

“When Poppies Bloom” by Sarah J. Day

‘Tis the time of the poppies;
The fields are aflame;
And looking down
From the mountain crown
The way whence we came,
At the cañon’s mouth lie acres unrolled
Glowing and gleaming with molten gold.
No clouds to pale them,
No rain to dim
The velvety gloss
Of each cup’s emboss,
Perfect from rim to rim ;
‘Tis a sun-blessed land that riots in bloom,
Shadowless, fearless of storm or gloom.
They tell of a tourney
Of Pomp and Pride,
Ofthe furnishings
Of a field where kings
Splendidly vied;
But what could rival in days of old
This field resplendent of Cloth of Gold.
The far-off shining
Of wealth like this,
Was it that lured
Men hither, assured
Of treasure? I wis
‘T were a goodly store, could their delving yield
A tithe of the riches of this fair field.

“Song of the Poppies Golden” by Unknown

O’ER the foothills, through the meadows,
Midst the cañons’ lights and shadows,
Spreading with their amber glow,
Lo, the golden poppies grow!
Golden poppies, deep and hollow,
Golden poppies, rich and mellow,
Radiant in their robes of yellow.
Lo, the golden poppies grow!

Climbing up the mighty mountains,
By the cool upspringing fountains,
Where the wild brooks seaward flow,
Lo, the golden poppies glow!
In their cups the sun enfolding,
Cups of gold, night’s nectar holding,
Wide at length their souls unfolding,
Lo, the golden poppies grow.

Golden poppies, flecks of amber,
All the landscape scattered o’er,
Children of the sun, remember,
Though your souls are all so golden ,
Once there bloomed in days now olden,—
Happy days that come no more, —
A Golden Soul, your souls outvying,
More of sunshine, love undying,

Ofgrace and beauty more and more ;
But the envious heavens chilled it ,
And the cold winds came and killed it,
Drooped the Golden Soul and died.
Golden poppies, rich and mellow,
Golden poppies, robed in yellow,
Bloom your fairest,
Bloom your rarest,
For the Golden Soul that died.


A beautiful woman in a white dress with short hair standing in the meadow with blooming poppies

“A Pretty Golden Poppy” by Mrs. V. W. Rucker

IN Sunny California, out in the
Golden West,—
In that Summer-land where flowers
reign supreme,—
Where the birds are always singing,
and Nature is in tune,
There dwells the little girl I love
so well.
I met her, you must know, where
golden poppies grow,
In a dell where birds sing all the
When she promised to be mine I
found happiness divine,
And crowned her pretty head with
golden poppies.

Oh, she’s a pretty golden poppy, this girl of mine,
Just like the cheerful little flower, she’s all sunshine.
With her sweet and winsome grace and her ever-smiling face,
She has won my heart complete, this girl of mine.

Months have passed since with my darling I rambled thro’ the dell ,
On the sunny day she promised to be mine!
When the time had come for parting, these words she said to me,
“What e’er betide, I’ll ever faithful be.”
When springtime comes again, and poppies are in bloom,
To darling Nell I will return.
When the nuptial knot is tied and she becomes my bride,
Again her pretty head I’ll crown with poppies.

“Songs” by Lillian Shuay

Flame-winged poppies of the West,
What will be our passion’s test ?
As you bloom from spring to spring,
So will be love’s lingering.
Poppies, stars that never set,
Can the tender heart forget?

Love-born poppies on my breast,
With your beauty I am blest,
Glow within and glow without,
Now the secret’s all about.
Poppies, poppies, cups of gold,
You can worlds of gladness hold.

“The Poppy Field” by Nora May French

BEYOND the tangled poppies lies a lake;
And ever sings to him who muses here
The murmur of the hidden streams and clear
That flow thereto by arching fern and brake.
But never, slumber-heavy, does he wake
To heed the music calling in his ear,
Nor ever knows the water, deep and near,
Ashine with silver lilies for his sake.

And never he will heed, that love of thine;
The poppies of thy beauty drug his sleep;
Nor heedest thou that I must hear the streams,
And follow all thy crystal thought and fine,
And love at last the lilies folded deep
Within thy soul’s unknown beyond his dreams.