While The Billy BoilsSearchRed poppy blooms a-flauntingBold lips to every bee,White roses’ perfume hauntingThe very soul of meWith touches light and tauntingOn chords of memory.
Red poppies, death-o’ertaken,White roses turned to dust —In larger lands unshakenBy mould or moth or rust,Will life wake love-forsaken? —Behold, the gods are just!
Red sunrise, white moon-setting,The seasons wax and wane,Nor heed the torrents frettingTo mingle with the main,Nor Sorrow’s salt dews wettingLife’s perished blooms in vain.
Beside the stream’s in-flowing,Betwixt twin-paths of fateOne stands aghast at going —And one sore-grieved to waitRecalls red poppies blowing —White roses at the gate.