DELIGHTFUL DAFFODILS

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host, of golden daffodils…

—William Wordsworth, "The Daffodils"

I think there's a literary rule somewhere that says it's obligatory to begin any piece on daffodils with the above quote from Wordsworth. Indeed, these first few lines from one of the English's language's finest nature-cognizant lyrical poets, are counted among his best-known works, and have been quoted for generations around the globe. 

A couple of posts back I mentioned that the daffodils are starting to bloom around the cottage. Friend and frequent commenter, Astra (AfromTO) said she'd like to see some daffodil shots to better put her in a spring mood. I agreed to deliver. I have lots of daffodils just starting to bloom, with many more to come, in a dozen different sizes and colors, since every autumn I plant a few hundred additional bulbs. 

Yet while the beloved old bard of the Lake District is not the only one to have written about daffodils, an astonishing number of poems by other well-known poets employ these lovely spring flowers as a symbol of loss, sadness, heartbreak, death. After reading a dozen or two of these depressing works, your first impulse might be to dash outside and rip every flower and bulb from the earth, fling them into the trash, and replace each with some alternate object at least as cheery as a lump of coal. I did consider scrapping the quotes notion. Then I remembered that a poet's job is to be introspective which, given the somber nature of much of life's view, should probably cause you expect many of their subsequent literary results  to be gloomy, desolate, haunted. Truth is a tough mistress, and it take an unusually unquenchable and indomitable spirit to not not wallow in the darkness and mess whenever you finally put pen to paper.

Let the poets deal with the bleak and somber, the heartbreaking and melancholy, the dire, dismal, and doleful. I trust the photos show that I'm of the glass half-full perspective—the bubbly, cheery, can't-keep-me-down-for-long school who delights in the vernal beauty of these lovely flowers. I tend to agree with A. A. Miline: "A house with daffodils in it is a house lit up, whether or no the sun be shining outside." 

Daffodils shout spring…and spring is my favorite time of year. 

When a daffodil I see,

Hanging down his head towards me,

Guess I may what I must be:

First, I shall decline my head;

Secondly, I shall be dead;

Lastly, safely buried.

—Robert Herrick, "Divination By A Daffodil"

   

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;

As yet the early-rising sun

Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay,

Until the hasting day

Has run

But to the even-song;

And, having pray'd together, we

Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you,

We have as short a spring;

As quick a growth to meet decay,

As you, or anything.

We die

As your hours do, and dry

Away,

Like to the summer's rain;

Or as the pearls of morning's dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

          —Robert Herrick, "To Daffodils"

What matter if the sun be lost?

What matter though the sky be gray?

There's joy enough about the house,

For Daffodil comes home to-day.

There's news of swallows on the air,

There's word of April on the way,

They're calling flowers within the street,

And Daffodil comes home to-day.

O who would care what fate may bring,

Or what the years may take away!

There's life enough within the hour,

For Daffodil comes home to-day.

—Bliss Carman, "Daffodil's Return"

Daffodils, 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 

The winds of March with beauty…

—William Shakespeare, "The Winter's Tale" 

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, 

and quiet breathing.…Such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make…

——John Keats,"The Necessity of Poetry"

in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how...

—e.e. cummings, "in time of daffodils"

Then the face of night is fair in the dewy downs 

And the shining daffodil dies.

—Lord Alfred Tennyson, "Maud"

O Love-star of the unbeloved March, 

When cold and shrill, 

Forth flows beneath a low, dim-lighted arch 

The wind that beats sharp crag and barren hill, 

And keeps unfilmed the lately torpid rill! 

—Sir Aubrey de Vere, "Ode to the Daffodil"

Thou yellow trumpeter of laggard Spring!
Thou herald of rich Summer's myriad flowers!
The climbing sun with new recovered powers
Does warm thee into being...

—Amy Lowell, "To an Early Daffodil" 

What ye have been ye still shall be 

When we are dust the dust among, 

O yellow flowers! 

——Henry Austin Dobson, "To Daffodils"

There is a tiny yellow daffodil,
The butterfly can see it from afar,
Although one summer evening's dew could fill
Its little cup twice over, ere the star
Had called the lazy shepherd to his fold,
And be no prodigal.

——Oscar Wilde, "The Burden of Stys"

The daffodil is our doorside queen;
She pushes upward the sword already,
To spot with sunshine the early green.

——William Cullen Bryant, "An Invitation to the Country"

It is daffodil time, so the robins all cry, 

For the sun's a big daffodil up in the sky, 

And when down the midnight the owl calls "to-whoo!"

Why, then the round moon is a daffodil too; 

Now sheer to the bough-tops the sap starts to climb, 

So, merry my masters, it's daffodil time.

 ——Clinton Scollard, "Daffodil Time"

———————

DAFFODILS…I THINK

My first daffodils bloomed yesterday—though they could have been jonquils. Daffodils?Jonquils? I've never quite grasped the difference. I know that all jonquils are daffodils—that is to say they are both narcissus—but not all daffodils are jonquils. Which is which, I dunno. But my mother did. She always said her daffodils bloomed first. The ones she called jonquils sported smaller blooms than the flowers she identified as daffodils—and were very fragrant.

Whichever these are, they're located on the steep, rock-strewn hillside between the cottage and the road—a sort of tangled border, almost a thicket, with lots of trees, which I allow to remain wild and do nothing to maintain other than lop out some of the honeysuckle. A few bloodroots grow here, and even fewer jack-in-the-pulpits, along with the ubiquitous blue violets. But I wouldn't have expected these daffodils to bloom first. Instead, my money would have been on a small planting of the same species near the south side of the cottage. Usually it's these bulbs, protected from winter's winds and warmed by heat radiated from the cottage's stone wall, that poke up the first green shoots—sometimes amid patches of snow—and later, unfurl the first butter-yellow blooms.

This year, however, for whatever reason, the rowdy hillside bunch took the honors, gleaming like shards of sunlight come mid-morning. The laggardly cottage patch didn't show their yellow blooms until late afternoon.

We've had a a bit of rain before dawn, as well as a few light showers throughout the morning—though none in the last hour. In fact the sun is now out. I don't think we'll make it above 60˚F today; certainly we'll not enjoy a repeat of yesterday's 72˚F high. However, after a long winter—with rain expected for tomorrow and snow flurries predicted for Thursday—none of us riverbankers are keen on wasting such outside time. A song sparrow is whistling merrily. The squirrels are busy chasing about and squabbling over sunflower seeds. A couple of kingfishers are working the river. And just a few minutes ago a pair of Canada geese plucked their way through the corner of the yard visible from my workroom window.

I need to get out there and take advantage of whatever good weather the day serves up—doing more raking and clean-up in the back yard or in the small patch beyond where the drive slants down the hill, and which has been sorely neglected for too long. It's part of this year's yard plans to get this landscaped and planted. Who know? It might even happen.

———————     

SWEET SUNSHINE!

Look up…is that the moon we see?

Can't be, looks like the sun to me!

—Ricky Nelson, 1959, "It's Late"

Late, early, or possibly a miracle, seeing the sun this morning—however briefly—has been an unexpected blessing; soothing balm for the winter weary heart. Not to mention a genuine surprise. According to the National Weather Service's latest area forecast, today is supposed to be cloudy and overcast, with snow showers this afternoon. Not exactly news, except for the possible snow part. Otherwise, dense overcast has been the norm for what seems like days on end. For suffers of SAD (seasonal affective disorder) the unrelieved gloom has made them them depressed, listless, sleepy, craving sweets and starches, and moody as rats in a box. This morning's brief shot of actual sunlight was doubtless refreshing therapy.

Sycamores upstream from the cottage,

their white trunks lit dramatically.

When the sunshine came, suddenly, just as I sat down at the desk having returned to my work room following breakfast, the light looked odd, almost spooky—a bright beam, coming from a low point on the eastern horizon and sweeping westward across the yard and river. Dramatic sidelight which lit the trunks of the sycamores leaning along the far bank upstream from the cottage. The trees' white bark absolutely glowed again the dark backdrop of sky.

The riverbank critters—feathered and furred—certainly seemed energized by the sunlight. Bird traffic at the feeders increased noticeably within moments of the sun's appearance. The Cooper's hawk executed a flashing pass-through around the cottage, temporarily scattering the early meal party, but otherwise doing no damage. I think he may have just been showing off, or perhaps gave in to a moment of devilment, hoping to frighten the breakfasting crowd—like a teenager jumping out of a closet at a roomful of kindergartners and yelling, "Boo!" Squirrels chased each other through the treetops. The Carolina wren cut loose with his merry Sweet 'tater! Sweet 'tater! Sweet 'tater! Sweet! song. The pileateds over on the island began yammering maniacally. I hustled out and made a few photos. Moon the dog took herself a little di-do run across the grass.

The first green daffodil shoots—so encouraging!

Looking around, I noticed a bit of green near the cottage wall and ambled over for a closer inspection. Oh my! The green proved to be the first tentative shoots of some of the spring bulbs I've planted all along the foundation—probably the earliest variety of daffodils. A handful of green here, another there. Several dozen plants sticking their emerald periscopes up for a precursory survey. Oh, my! Though I didn't think the few minutes of sunlight had simultaneously popped those green tendrils from their underground beds, I do know they weren't up and visible Saturday because I filled the nearby seed feeder then, and would certainly have noticed such an eye-catching reassurance of the season's progression.

On this planet, light and life are all but synonymous—at least to the majority of plants and animals along the riverbank. I don't mind a week or two of dingy gray days; but I also didn't realize how much I would enjoy even a few minutes of strong sunlight.

Ahh-h-h, sweet sunshine. Neither predicted nor expected, but welcomed by one and all.