Where poppies, dusky red,
Nod sleepily beside the garden wall,
Heavy with damp night dews, weird shadows fall
From charmed boughs o'erhead.

Distinct each separate leaf,
And set in golden-black against the deep
Dark amber sky, where twilight still doth keep
Her vigils all too brief.

The breeze forgets to play,
And still it is, as if indeed each tree
Held all its little hands out warningly
To bid the winds away.