Photo by Jennifer Clarvoe.
“When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park
we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. We fancied
that the lake had floated the seeds ashore and that the little
colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were
more and yet more and at last under the boughs of the trees,
we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore,
about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw
daffodils so beautiful.”
–Dorothy Wordsworth, Grasmere Journal, April 15, 1802
Whose woods these are I think I know
(I wander lonely as cloud)
his house is in the village though
that floats on high o’er vales and hills
he will not see me stopping here
where all at once I see a crowd
I see his woods fill up with snow
a host of golden daffodils
My little horse must think it queer
continuous as the stars that shine
to stop without a farmhouse near
and twinkle on the milky way
between the woods and frozen lake
they stretch in never-ending line
the darkest evening of the year
along the margin of a bay
He gives his harness bells a shake
the waves beside them dance, but they
to ask if there is some mistake
out-do the sparkling waves in glee
the only other sound’s the sweep
(a poet could not but be gay)
of easy wind and downy flake
in such a jocund company
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
for oft, when on my couch I lie
though I have promises to keep
in vacant or in pensive mood
and miles to go before I sleep,
they flash upon that inward eye
and miles to go before I sleep
which is the bliss of solitude.