I. One Is A Slow And Melancholy Maid; I Know Riot If She Cometh From The Skies Or From The Sleepy Gulfs, But She Will Rise Often Before Me In The Twilight Shade, Holding A Bunch Of Poppies And A Blade Of Springing Wheat: Prostrate My Body Lies Before Her On The Turf, The While She Ties A Fillet Of The Weed About My Head; And In The Gaps Of Sleep I Seem To Hear A Gentle Rustle Like The Stir Of Corn, And Words Like Odours Thronging To My Ear: "Lie Still, Beloved--Still Until The Morn; Lie Still With Me Upon This Rolling Sphere-- Still Till The Judgment; Thou Art Faint And Worn." Ii. The Other Meets Me In The Public Throng; Her Hair Streams Backward From Her Loose Attire; She Hath A Trumpet And An Eye Of Fire; She Points Me Downward, Steadily And Long:-- "There Is Thy Grave--Arise, My Son, Be Strong! Hands Are Upon Thy Crown--Awake, Aspire To Immortality; Heed Not The Lyre Of The Enchantress, Nor Her Poppy-Song, But In The Stillness Of The Summer Calm Tremble For What Is Godlike In Thy Being. Listen A While, And Thou Shall Hear The Psalm Of Victory Sung By Creatures Past Thy Seeing; And From Far Battle-Fields There Comes The Neighing Of Dreadful Onset, Though The Air Is Balm." Iii. Maid With The Poppies, Must I Let Thee Go? Alas, I May Not; Thou Art Likewise Dear! I Am But Human, And Thou Hast A Tear When She Hath Nought But Splendour, And The Glow Of A Wild Energy That Mocks The Flow Of The Poor Sympathies Which Keep Us Here: Lay Past Thy Poppies, And Come Twice As Near, And I Will Teach Thee, And Thou Too Shalt Grow; And Thou Shalt Walk With Me In Open Day Through The Rough Thoroughfares With Quiet Grace; And The Wild-Visaged Maid Shall Lead The Way, Timing Her Footsteps To A Gentler Pace As Her Great Orbs Turn Ever On Thy Face, Drinking In Draughts Of Loving Help Alway.