Their odor so powerful that anyone who breathes it
             sleeps within a ring of silken tents and is
innocent as water, as petals on roads of poplars
             with syrup-sky for pale distance, as milkmaids’
pollen skirts among the clover. Cropper & tilled,
             spent sap of the body’s best memory, this —
Sleepyhead, my poppy-milk, O field of deadly flowers:
             I know dark from bright & milk from white
in hawthorne-flower; I know milk from honey.
             Would you have drunk the offered cup
just to sleep forever in the trembling grass?
             Ruination and regret, I would have drunk it
bitter grain & bitter sleep, if you’d lay down.