Fifty-One Tales by Lord Dunsany 1915

The Giant Poppy

I dreamt that I went back to the hills I knew, whence on a

clear day you can see the walls of Ilion and the plains of

Roncesvalles.  There used to be woods along the tops of

those hills with clearings in them where the moonlight fell,

and there when no one watched the fairies danced.

   But there were no woods when I went back, no fairies nor

distant glimpse of Ilion or plains of Roncesvalles, only one

giant poppy waved in the wind, and as it waved it hummed

"Remember not."  And by its oak-like stem a poet sat,

dressed like a shepherd and playing an ancient tune softly

upon a pipe.  I asked him if the fairies had passed that way

or anything olden.

   He said: "The poppy has grown apace and is killing gods

and fairies.  Its fumes are suffocating the world, and its

roots drain it of its beautiful strength."  And I asked him

why he sat on the hills I knew, playing an olden tune.

   And he answered: "Because the tune is bad for the poppy,

which would otherwise grow more swiftly; and because if the

brotherhood of which I am one were to cease to pipe on the

hills men would stray over the world and be lost or come to

terrible ends.  We think we have saved Agamemnon."

   Then he fell to piping again that olden tune, while the

wind among the poppy's sleepy petals murmured "Remember

not.  Remember not."