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"Poppies," she said and sighed;
Sighed, too, as if she needed rest,
This woman in life's beauty and life's pride,
Whom all the world called, blest.


Swiftly the summer sped;
Yet ere the August days had passed
Friends whispered to each other, "She is dead;
The high tide could not last."


Love strewed her couch with bloom;
Laid rose and pansy on her breast,
Who took so gently to that silent room
White poppies? Dear one, rest!