The Poppies Hung Dew-dabbled On

Fanatics Have Their Dreams, Wherewith They Weave A Paradise For A Sect.

That Which Is Creative Must Create Itself.

O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet My Song Comes Native With The Warmth. O Fret Not After Knowledge - I Have None, And Yet The Evening Listens.

I Am Sailing With Thee Through The Dizzy Sky! How Beautiful Thou Art!

Who Hath Not Seen Thee Oft Amid Thy Store? Sometimes Whoever Seeks Abroad May Find Thee Sitting Careless On A Granary Floor, Thy Hair Soft-lifted By The Winnowing Wind; Or On A Half-reap'd Furrow Sound Asleep, Drows'd With The Fume Of Poppies, While Thy Hook Spares The Next Swath And All Its Twined Flowers.