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 

still in Summer's rose unshown: 
   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 standards are outroll'd, 
   other lovers wander slow; 
   I would know 
if the morn is that of old. 

Here our days bloom fuller yet, 
   happiness is all our task; 
   still I ask -- 
do the vanish'd days forget?