|Van Gogh, Field With Poppies|
In open field, the poppies tall,
Wake from sleep so deep, to fly;
Their paper petals, blush, enthrall,
Flat out, they flout their blooms, unshy.
The winds will blow, red men will fall,
Blood-tears shed—bled into sky;
Tossed to heaven, once-silenced spirits all,
With no word ever heard, they cry.