Classic Poem

Wherever on Italian ground,
Carried by whim, I chance to go,
The poppy follows me around
Palace and pasture, high and low.
Rich in her red, she decks my heart
Like her own meadows; sick of soul,
I watch the whirl of crowded art,
Till her pure passion makes me whole.

O simple flower, you speak the tongue
That tear-drops answer; North and South,
The lips of lovers as they clung,
Spake your sweet language, mouth to mouth:
Francesca, ere she found her doom,
Planted you on Paolo's lips;
And Roman Antony saw you bloom,
Flaming, on Cleopatra's ships.