Leaping down the furrows with eager, boyish tread
Through the poppied wheat fields to the flaming woods ahead.
Poppies in the wheat fields as sinks the summer sun,
Broken, bruised and trampled—but the bitter day is won;
Yonder in the woodland where the flashing rifles shine,
With their poppies in their helmets, the front files hold the line.
Poppies in the wheat field; how still beside them lie
Scattered forms that stir not when the star shells burst on high;
Gently bending o’er them beneath the moon’s soft glance,
Poppies of the wheat fields on the ransomed hills of France.