Sleep lies in every cup
Of land or flower:
Look how the earth drains up
Her evening hour!
Each face that once so laughed,
Now fain would lift
Lips to Life's sleeping-draught,
The goodlier gift.
Oh, whence this overflow,
This flood of rest?
What vale of healing so
Unlocks her breast?
What land, to give us right
Of refuge, yields
To the sharp scythes of light
Her poppied fields?
Nay, wait! our turn to make
Amends grows due!
Another day will break,
We must give too!