Along Ancona's hills the shimmering heat, br A tropic tide of air with ebb and flow br Bathes all the fields of wheat until they glow br Like flashing seas of green, which toss and beat br Around the vines. The poppies lithe and fleet br Seem running, fiery torchmen, to and fro br To mark the shore. br The farmer does not know br That they are there. He walks with heavy feet, br Counting the bread and wine by autumn's gain, br But I,--I smile to think that days remain br Perhaps to me in which, through bread be sweet br No more, and red wine warm my blood in vain, br I shall be glad remembering how the fleet, br Lithe poppies ran like torchmen with the wheat.