Where the poppy-banners flow
in and out amongst the corn,
spotless morn
ever saw us come and go
hand in hand, as girl and boy
warming fast to youth and maid,
half afraid
at the hint of passionate joy
still in Summer's rose unshown:
yet we heard nor knew a fear;
strong and clear
summer's eager clarion blown
from the sunrise to the set:
now our feet are far away,
night and day,
do the old-known spots forget?
Sweet, I wonder if those hours
breathe of us now parted thence,
if a sense
of our love-birth thrill their flowers.
Poppies flush all tremulous --
has our love grown into them,
root and stem;
are the red blooms red with us?
Summer's standards are outroll'd,
other lovers wander slow;
I would know
if the morn is that of old.
Here our days bloom fuller yet,
happiness is all our task;
still I ask --
do the vanish'd days forget?
John Le Gay Brereton.