Jean Graham

AT the silken sign of the Poppy,

At a shop which is never old,

Where a twilight silence lingers—

It is there that dreams are sold.

There ’s the scent of Love’s lost roses,

The soft echo of childhood’s laugh,

There ’s the ring of empty glasses,

For the white lips never quaff.

To the silken sign of the Poppy

We all come when the daylight dies,

When the curfew music echoes,

’Neath the grey of evening skies.

Just beyond the gates of sunset,

Where the grim toll of death we pay,

We shall find the shop of dream-ware

Where the poppies hang alway.

So we long for dusk of the twilight

When, with wealth of no earthly gold,

We shall come where sleep-flowers cluster,

To the shop where dreams are sold.