Long years ago I chanced to meet
Upon Nebraska's borderland,
A gentle woman, pale and sweet,
Who held within a slender hand
Some crimson poppies. Such, I thought,
Would well become her bronze-brown hair,
In which a glint of sunshine caught
Brightened the silver lurking there;
A low-voiced woman, fair to see,
Gifted with grace and courtesy.
We talked of flowers. I careless said
That poppies were no loves of mine;
I liked them for their brilliant red,
Like sunlight through a vase of wine,
But was content that they should lie
Relieved against her soft dark dress;
They pleased right well my artist eye,
But failed to touch me ne'ertheless.
She smiled: "They sweetness lack, 'tis true,
But they appeal to me, from you.
As homely, tried, and constant friends,
Or kindred we have always known;
It is their homeliness that lends
A grace we else might fail to own.
They grew beside my mother's door,
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