Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare,
And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,
And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

From the poem ‘The Poppy’, by Francis Thompson

Photo: Sunrise, Dorset Poppies by Mike Boss.

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