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Drowsed With The Fume Of Poppies

On a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. -John Keatsstylist Carly Brook
Posted February 6th, 2010 by usgirl
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