|First daffodil--February 23, 2011|
How many is in a host? Really, let's have a little suspension of disbelief.
So, there was only this one daffodil on Wednesday when I took this picture two days ago. But, the next day there were dozens. Today, there are more. You are getting a two-day old news flash. Isn't it marvelous how Nature shakes off winter and presents herself? First, it seems she comes and peeks shyly. Then, emboldened, everything else shows itself.
Remember when the daffodils first came up on January 1, 2011? They were no more than two inches high. I am continually amazed at the economy of nature.
If only vegetables spread and persisited like daffodils, I would have quite a large garden with little effort, no buying seeds, and no wondering if seeds were going to germinate. Not spending certainly suits my parsimonious bent.
Wordsworth was born in the Lake District in Northern England. He and his sister, Dorothy, took a walk and saw the field of daffodils. She noted it in her journal in an entry. Wordsworth waited something like two years to write the beautiful poem:
(your turn is at the bottom of the page, beyond the poem.)
I WANDER'D 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,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:—
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company!
I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Is your heart dancing with the golden daffodils? Mine surely is. What is blooming in your yard? I suppose no one loves Wordsworth, one of the major Romantic poets, as well as I do? Raise your hand if you do.