THE SONG OF THE POPPY FAIRY

The green wheat's a growing
The lark sings on high;
In scarlet silk a glowing,
Here I stand.

The wheat's turning yellow,
Ripening for sheaves;
I hear the little fellow
Who scares the bird-thieves.

Now the harvest's ended,
The wheat-field is bare;
But still, red and splendid,
I am there.