Like poppies in the golden corn,
The poet’s race is run;
Each strives alike to gain the ear;
The poppy from the sun
Borrows more radiance than gold--
A poet’s much the same, I’m told.
But still these differences appear
When everything is said;
The poet’s leaves, I greatly fear,
Are very seldom read.
Poppies but borrow from the sun--
A poet will from anyone.