Jane Taylor

The Poppy

High on a bright and sunny bed

A scarlet poppy grew;

And up it thrust its staring head,

And thrust it full in view.

Yet no attention did it win

By all these efforts made,

And less unwelcome had it been

In some retired shade.

For though within its scarlet breast

No sweet perfume was found,

It seemed to think itself the best

Of all the flowers around.

From this I may a hint obtain,

And take great care indeed,

Lest I appear as pert and vain

As is this gaudy weed.