As there, swaying in the westwind,
The poppy flower glows!
The flower that is most appropriate
To garland the brow of the god of dreams;
Now crimson bright, as if to mirror
The play of the sunset's glow,
Now white and pale, as if
The shimmer of the moon were falling upon it.

I heard a warning uttered
That he who slept among poppies
Was carried down into
Dreams weighty and deep;
Even for the awakened one there remained
The trace of mad delusion,
His near ones and his dear ones
He considered to be only spectres.

In the days of my youth,
I too once lay,
Completely concealed by flowers,
In a beautiful valley.
Their scent was so gentle!
Then (I hardly felt it happen)
Life became an illusion for me,
Reality a dream.

Since then it consistently seems to me
As if it were right only thus,
My illusion of the world [being] vibrant,
My dream alone [being] true and real;
The shadows that I see
Are as clear as the stars.
Oh poppy of poetry, waft
About my brow forever!