Flower Fairies of the Summer

The Song of 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.