The Poppy
BY JANE TAYLOR
High on a bright and sunny bed
A scarlet poppy grew
And up it held its staring head,
And thrust it full in view.

Yet no attention did it win,
By all these efforts made,
And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.

Although within its scarlet breast
No sweet perfume was found,
It seemed to think itself the best
Of all the flowers round,

From this I may a hint obtain
And take great care indeed,
Lest I appear as pert and vain
As does this gaudy weed.