High up in hollow valleys where dim lakes
In Karahissar find no watershed,
By many a snow-gorged roaring river-bed,
In long white fluttering waves the poppy shakes;

But spring-tide comes at last, and April wakes,
And tears the petals from the golden head,
Till, of its pink wings disinherited,
The opium-laden capsule bends and bakes.

Then, after sunset, the sleek farmers creep
To slash the poppy-globes, and leave them soon
Oozing green tears beneath the gibbous moon;

Tears, that in scallop-shells, when dawn shall peep,
Patient they'll gather; then, dismiss the boon
Round the wide world in bales of solid sleep.