The trees are white with dust, that o'er their sleep Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind's breath, While underneath such leafy tents they keep The long, mysterious Exodus of Death. — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Copy Share Image
“Poppies whose roots are in man’s veins Drop, and are ever dropping; But mine in my ear is safe — Just a little white with the dust.” — Candace Ward Copy Share Image
