Where the poppy-banners flow

in and out amongst the corn,

spotless morn

ever saw us come and go

hand in hand, as girl and boy

warming fast to youth and maid,

half-afraid

at the hint of passionate joy

hid in summer’s rose unblown:

yet we heard nor knew a fear,

strong and clear,

summer’s eager clarion blown,

from the sunrise to the set:

now our feet are far away,

night and day,

do the old known spots forget?

Sweet, I wonder if those hours

breathe of us now parted thence,

if a sense

of our love-birth thrill their flowers:

poppies flush all tremulous;

has our love grown into them,

root and stem,

are the red blooms red with us?

Summer’s banner is unroll’d;

other lovers wander slow;

I would know

if the morn is that of old.

Here our days bloom fuller yet,

and our love is all our task;

still I ask:

can those olden days forget?