Normale Version: Poppies, that scattered o'er this arid plain'
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Poppies, that scattered o'er this arid plain'
Display the barrenness ye cannot cure,
Though little may your sickly flowers allure,
Their juice deserves because it aids the strain,

For not alone it lulls our harshest pain,
While, in the dangerous or the indulgent hour,
The Turk still seeks it, but its wondrous power
Can bring to bear the poet's barren brain;

And in blessed service, like a knight of old,
It conquers but the monsters of the mind;
Oh! poppy-flowers, as rude weeds round ye press,

E'en you look beauteous, 'mong their colors cold:
So, mid the prickly cares of life, we find
The sweetest hours - those of forgetfulness.