quote by John Keats

Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul.

— John Keats

Lavish Poppies quotations

Never be afraid to be a poppy in a field of daffodils.


Once in the dream of a night I stood Lone in the light of a magical wood, Soul-deep in visions that poppy-like sprang; And spirits of Truth were the birds that sang, And spirits of Love were the stars that glowed, And spirits of Peace were the streams that flowed In that magical wood in the land of sleep.

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And far and wide, in a scarlet tide, The poppy's bonfire spread.

We cherish too, the Poppy red That grows on fields where valor led, It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies.

I survived, carried on, glad to be like a weed, a wild red poppy, rooted in life.


But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, it's bloom is shed;

Or, like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white, then melts forever.

As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, we shall never have a garden without them, both for their own sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks, who used to love them.

But pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flower

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.

Pleasures are like poppies spread: You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed.


We are slumberous poppies, Lords of Lethe downs, Some awake and some asleep, Sleeping in our crowns. What perchance our dreams may know, Let our serious may know.

It's going to be really interesting to see what the heroin market does in the next two years or so. One thing you can be pretty sure of. The Afghan peasants who grow poppies won't get rich. The money will end up in places like Dubai.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow.

That we find a crystal or a poppy beautiful means that we are less alone, that we are more deeply inserted into existence than the course of a single life would lead us to believe.

I always found the extraordinary loss of life in the First World War very moving. I remember learning about it as a very young child, as an eight- or nine-year-old, asking my teachers what poppies were for. Every year the teachers would suddenly wear these red paper flowers in their lapels, and I would say 'What does that mean?'


When you go for a walk, take seeds with you, poppies, rainbow chard, rocket.

Plant them among the weeds in patches of wasteland. See what happens.

Carrying a poppy he passes through the quarrel.

And would it not be proud romance Falling in some obscure advance, To rise, a poppy field of France?

Historians are to nationalism what poppy-growers in Pakistan are to heroin-addicts: we supply the essential raw material for the market.

Central depth of purple, Leaves more bright than rose, Who shall tell what brightest thought Out of darkness grows? Who, through what funereal pain, Souls to love and peace attain? - Leigh Hunt (James Henry Leigh Hunt


In Europe and Australia, there is something called the Tall Poppy Syndrome: People like to cut the tall poppies. They don't want you to succeed, and they cut you down - especially people from your own social class.

I like best to have one book in my hand, and a stack of others on the floor beside me, so as to know the supply of poppy and mandragora will not run out before the small hours.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there. I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one.

Religion is the opiate of the people.

The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below


Yes, linseed oil. I used to use poppy oil, but I have heard that poppy oil is given to cracking pigment too, so I use it no longer.

Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.

There's no new direction. It's not more poppy or more rocky. They're just rock'n'roll tunes. I'll never change the music I write.

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare, And left the flushed print in a poppy there: Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came, And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame. With burnt mouth red like a lion's it drank The blood of the sun as he slaughtered sank, And dipped its cup in the purpurate shine When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

The earth is rocky and full of roots;

it's clay, and it seems doomed and polluted, but you dig little holes for the ugly shriveled bulbs, throw in a handful of poppy seeds, and cover it all over, and you know you'll never see it again - it's death and clay and shrivel, and your hands are nicked from the rocks, your nails black with soil.


London life was very full and exciting [.

..] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray.

It is in the brain that the poppy is red, that the apple is odorous, that the skylark sings.

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

One day my 3-year-old daughter said 'Your very handsome, Poppy.' That was the best compliment ever.