The sky is like an envelope, One of those blue official things; And, sealing it, to mock our hope, The moon, a silver wafer, clings. What shall we find when death gives leave...
POPPIES, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat;...