I COME to you with a gift in my hand, A flower that grew in a golden land, A land on whose head is a poppy crown And the scent of the blossoms is wafted down To the amber bay and the topaz sea And the sun-god's grave by the cocoa tree. I come to you with a flower whose face Is the zenith of beauty, the acme of grace; There are dreams in its eyes and the song on its lips Is the lullaby song of the shadow that slips O'er the tall purple mountain that watches like Fate The silver sails threading the fair Golden Gate. I come to you with a flower whose breath Brings freedom from fear of disaster and death, For though El Dorado be blackened, and rock Through the demon of fire and the earthquake shock, There is peace in the hearts of her children who know The scent of the fields where the poppies grow. |