POPPIES OF WICKENBURG
Where Coronado’s men of oldSought the Pecos’ fabled goldVainly many weary days,Now the land is all ablaze.Where the desert breezes stir,Earth, the old sun-worshiper,Lifts her shining chalicesUp to tempt the priestly bees.Every golden cup is filledWith a nectar sun-distilled;And the perfume, Nature’s prayer,Sweetens all the desert air.Poppies, poppies, who would strayO’er the mountains far away,Seeking still Quivira’s gold,When your wealth is ours to hold?