Brown hills long parched, long lifting to the blue Of summer's brilliant sky but russet hue Of sere grass shivering in the trade-wind's sweep. Soon, with light footfalls, from their tranced sleep The first rains bid the poppies rise anew, And trills the lark exultant summons, too. How swift at Fancy's beck those gay crowds leap To glowing life! The eager green leaves creep For welcome first; then hooded buds, pale gold, Each tender shower and sun-kiss help unfold Till smiling hosts crowd all the fields, and still A yellow sea of poppies breasts each hill And breaks in joyous floods as children hold Glad hands the lavish cups as gladly fill! ELLA M. SEXTON, in _The Golden Poppy._ AUGUST 22. CALIFORNIA. Her poppies fling a cloth of gold O'er California's hills-- Fit emblem of the wealth untold That hill and dale and plain unfold. Her fame the whole world fills. ELIZA D. KEITH. _How can one convey meaning to another in a language_ which that other does not understand? I can only tell you the charm of the desert, when you, too, have learned to love it. And then there will be no need for me to speak. IDAH MEACHAM STROBRIDGE, in _Miner's Mirage Land._ AUGUST 23. THE PÆAN OF THE POPPIES. The mountains sway with flame Where the frail glories tremble-- Fair fallen stars of fire! The valleys green acclaim The legions that assemble In royal robe and tire, With timbrel, shawm and choir. * * * * * Afar in darker lands I feel their kisses burning As sweet, uncertain lips. As faint, unhindered hands Are felt by exiles yearning On shores when tears eclipse The wan and westering ships. HERMAN SCHEFFAUER, in _Looms of Life._ AUGUST 24. PEACE. No hand have I on rudder laid; All my oars lie idly by; All my sheets are steadfast made. For Love now guides me silently. His are the waves and flowing tide; He is my bark and chart and hand; He is companion at my side; His the coming and departed land. Somewhere, I know, I port shall win; Somewhen I know, dear friends, I'll see; Love, "The I Am" is lord within! Daily he brings mine own to me. HENRY HARRISON BROWN, in _Now, March_, 1900. AUGUST 25. IN THE SEASON OF POPPIES. From the shoulders of Dawn the night shadow slipped, As the shy, saintly Moon evaded her tryst With the roystering Sun, who eagerly sipped From the valley's green cup the golden-white mist. Day flashed like a smile from Dawn's rosy mouth, With a passion of birds and fragrant appeals, And the warm winds up from the sleepy South Sluiced the red, scented gold of our poppy fields. HARLEY R. WILEY, in _Overland Monthly, Sept._, 1908. AUGUST 26. WHEN THE POPPY GOES TO SLEEP.