Quotes About Poppies

Little poppies, little hell flames, Do you do no harm? You flicker. I cannot touch you. I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

By the time writing was invented, the Greeks and Egyptians had already learned to extract opium from poppies to facilitate sleep.

The pain was just a small spark that kindled a greater flame of pleasure within her. She became pure feeling, devoid of intellect. The delicate petals of poppies drifted down upon her face. She was enfolded in feathers, in great wings.

Poppies whose roots are in man's veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe — Just a little white with the dust.

In Flanders' fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.

I am poppies in the fieldRed and cold I am sleeping alone and I am lightI am lightI am light

A girl who never smiles has such power—what men will do to turn up but one corner of her mouth! She already wears her red war-gown and her circlet of cinnabar poppies. They bring out the color in her grimace.

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

Life has always poppies in her hands.

Only with kisses and red poppies can I love you, with rain-soaked wreaths, contemplating ashen horses and yellow dogs. Only with waves at my back can I love you, between dull explosions of brimstone and reflective waters, swimming against cemeteries that circulate in certain rivers, drowned pasture flooding the sad, chalky tombstones, swimming across submerged hearts and faded lists of unburied children.

And the heart sounds like a sour conch, calls, oh sea, oh lament, oh molten panic, scattered in the unlucky and disheveled waves: the sea reports sonorously on its languid shadows, its green poppies.

on a bike ride through the Surrey Lanes, pedalling in my cotton dress through the hot fields blushing with poppies, freewheeling down a sudden dip into a cool wooded sanctum.

I always found the extraordinary loss of life in the First World War very moving. I remember learning about it as a very young child, as an eight- or nine-year-old, asking my teachers what poppies were for. Every year the teachers would suddenly wear these red paper flowers in their lapels, and I would say 'What does that mean?'

The gardens were brilliant with summer magic, with plump cushions of forget-me-nots, lemon balm, and vibrant yellow daylilies, surrounding plots of roses shot through with garnet clematis. Long rows of silvery lamb's-ear stretched between large stone urns filled with rainbow Oriental poppies.

At Livia's indecisive silence, Shaw abandoned the subject, and fastened his gaze on the tousled, heavily planted cottage garden ahead of them. Long banners of honeysuckle trailed over the garden fence, its fragrance making the air thick and sweet. Butterflies danced amid bright splotches of poppies and peonies. Beyond a plot of carrots, lettuce, and radishes, a rose-covered archway led to a tiny glasshouse that was shaded by a parasol-shaped sycamore.

These too are of a burning color--not orange, not gold, but if pure gold were liquid and could raise a cream, that golden cream might be like the color of the poppies.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers...

As often is the case after a powerful, destructive storm, it was an achingly beautiful day. Even so late in the summer, I could still hear the occasional skylark singing, and the fields were speckled with red poppies.