The Poppy Fairy

The green wheat’s a-growing,
The lark sings on high;
In scarlet silk a-glowing,
Here stand I.

The wheat’s turning yellow,
Ripening for sheaves;
I hear the little fellow
Who scares the bird-thieves.

Now the harvest’s ended,
The wheat-field is bare;
But still, red and splendid,
I am there.