Daffodils

Yesterday we invited some friends over for dinner.  Among other things (wine, good cheer, kids) they brought flowers (daffodils and tulips).  

Daffodils are my favorite flowers---I have a special soft spot for them.  I ask myself why I love them so much.  Here are some of the reasons: they are a promise of the sunshine to come; their outer petals are like an open hand offering a chalice of gold; they smell so beautiful; the first time I read the poem "The Daffodils" by William Wordsworth it opened up the world of poetry for me.  I memorized the poem (though I often forget the last few lines).  

I wish I could go and have a conversation with Mr. Wordsworth.  I like to imagine it would go something like this:

"Mr. Wordsworth,"  I would say, "remember how once you saw a field of daffodils and you wrote a poem about it and the poem was about how often, when you lay on your couch, you'd think back to the daffodils you saw?"  

"Yes....and your point is...?"

"My point is that because of your poem, I, too, saw the fields of daffodils so that now your memory has become mine, and when I lie on my couch I recall the poem which recalls your memory.  So thank you for writing it.  It has given me a lot of joy throughout the years."

"Oh, well, I don't know what to say.  Would you like some tea and then afterwards I can show you what I am working on right now."

And here is the poem.  Read it slowly, or better, close your eyes and ask someone to read it to you:

          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;
          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 stretched 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
          Out-did 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.

I was looking for a picture to put here but did not find anything that looks like what I imagine the poet saw.