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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.
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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" |
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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" |
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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" |
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty… —William Shakespeare, "The Winter's Tale" |
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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" |
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in time of daffodils (who know the goal of living is to grow) forgetting why, remember how... —e.e. cummings, "in time of daffodils" |
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Then the face of night is fair in the dewy downs And the shining daffodil dies. —Lord Alfred Tennyson, "Maud" |
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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" |
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| 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" |
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What ye have been ye still shall be When we are dust the dust among, O yellow flowers! ——Henry Austin Dobson, "To Daffodils" |
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| 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" |
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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" |
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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" |
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