Songs of the Poppy Harvest
I
How like to the poppy seed is this world,
It blossoms, it blossoms to-day.
To-morrow a stormy tempest blows
And the flower has vanished away.
O sad for the forests and willow-trees
That hark to the nightingales:
O woe for the house of the widow young
When the voice of her husband fails!
O sad for the forests and willow trees
When no nightingales awake
The rest of the little singing birds
As the rays of the morning break!
And sadder still is the quiet house
Where the lonely widow sleeps:
Where the little children none shall rouse
Since the grave their father keeps.
II
How sad, O my Mother, how sad
To think of the roses blown by the wind
And the petals all swept away!
How sad, O my Mother, how sad
For the war-horse in battle array!
But sadder my heart for the soldier young
Who must go for those three long years:
Must go at the call of his king!