Poppies

They are poppies, those round,

red-blooming, healthy ones

that bloom and bake in the summer

and are always in a cheery mood,

good and happy as a king,

their souls never tired of dancing;

they weep beneath their smiles

and seem born only

to tease the cornflowers;

yet nevertheless,

the softest, best hearts often hide

among the climbing ivy of jests;

God knows one would wish to

suffocate them with kisses

were one not so afraid

that, embracing the hoyden,

she would spring up into a full blaze

and go up in flames.