"I heard," said the second poppy, "one sweet lily of the valley whisper to
the others of its simple kind that we would die where we were unnoticed,
undesired by any one--how little it knew!"

"How cool and green this bed of moss," cried the third poppy; "it is a
most excellent place to die upon. I am willing, I am happy."

"Nay," said the fourth poppy, "you may die on her breast if you will. She
may take you up and put you into a jar of clear water. She may watch you
slowly open your sleepy dark eye. She may lean over you; then let your
passionate breath but touch her on the white brow, and she may tenderly
thrust you into her whiter bosom, and quickly yield herself, and you, to
an all-powerful forgetfulness. She may twine me into her dark hair, and I
will calm the throb of her blue-veined temples, and bring upon her a sleep
and a forgetting."

The fifth poppy trembled with joyful expectation, but said not a word.

* * * * *

Toward the close of the next day I went to her, the woman that I knew, to
whom I had sent the poppies.

I trod the stairway softly, oh, so softly, that led to her door. Shadows
from out of the unlighted hall danced about me, and the sounds of
music--harp music--pleased me with a strain of remembered chords.

She rose to greet me with provoking but delecious languor. She gave me the
tips of her rosy fingers. Her lips moved as if in speech, but no words
reached me; she barely smiled. In a priceless vase near the open window