Les Mouches Fantastiques (amateur journal)/May 1918/The Poppy Field

My golden boy is sleeping, there, where the poppies grow. He lies on the dew wet grass and dreams, while odorous winds come from over dark seas and stir the heavy poppy flowers that bend slightly with delicate movement. A slender moon hangs over him in the purple sky, and wraps his naked limbs with the pale mists of her silver hair, so that he shall dream his dreams.

He is sleeping, my golden boy. Little stars look down curiously from their heighths and see his beauty. And one, half frightened at his boldness, knowing my golden boy dreams eternally, there, where the poppies grow, climbs down the moon's swaying hair, and comes to where he lies and kisses his mouth.