Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, 
A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow 
Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow 
Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat 
Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet 
Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro 
To mark the shore. 
The farmer does not know 
That they are there. He walks with heavy feet, 
Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain, 
But I,--I smile to think that days remain 
Perhaps to me in which, through bread be sweet 
No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain, 
I shall be glad remembering how the fleet, 
Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.