The poppy is burning to marry,
The foxy poppy,
As it set its eyes on a chicory,
There is no other proud flower
Like it in all the field.
Yet the most beloved flower,
The most choice flower
Is not suited to the poppy
But is engaged to the Butterfly
And will be his bride.
King Butterfly, great ruler,
Furious, at once,
Throws himself to the wind on horseback,
And reaching the poppy on the horizon,
Started to beat him.
With golden wings,
The guard strikes him for me,
The leaves fall downward, stricken,
And backward, scattered,
The wind banishes them.
The chicories and the field laugh,
The mirth grows,
As of the Foxy Poppy
Remained now, the beggar,
Only a seed-pod.