Page:Poems by Frances Fuller Victor.djvu/45

 Long years ago I chanced to meet

Upon Nebraska's borderland,

A gentle woman, pale and sweet,

Who held within a slender hand

Some crimson poppies. Such, I thought,

Would well become her bronze-brown hair,

In which a glint of sunshine caught

Brightened the silver lurking there;

A low-voiced woman, fair to see,

Gifted with grace and courtesy.

We talked of flowers. I careless said

That poppies were no loves of mine;

I liked them for their brilliant red,

Like sunlight through a vase of wine,

But was content that they should lie

Relieved against her soft dark dress;

They pleased right well my artist eye,

But failed to touch me ne'ertheless.

She smiled: "They sweetness lack, 'tis true,

But they appeal to me, from you.

As homely, tried, and constant friends,

Or kindred we have always known;

It is their homeliness that lends

A grace we else might fail to own.

They grew beside my mother's door, 39