A festive day is on…
Among flaked out grass,
And poppies are in blots -
Like avid disability,
Like lips what teem with bait and bane,
Like opened wigs of damask bugs.
A festive day is on…
But garth is toom and dead.
Long time ago it broke away from baits and feasts, -
And dewless like the heads of trots,
The poppies with the cup are signed from heaven.