“Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare; And left the flushed print in a
poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the
fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a
lion’s it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped
its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.“

~Francis Thompson, “The Poppy”

Photo: Helmingham Hall Gardens, Stowmarket, Suffolk, England.

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