Interior

These daffodils within a London room,
The golden trumpets of the listening Spring,
These sweet evangelists, this lovely ring
Islanded yellow in the sea of gloom
Remind me of a day—how long ago?
It is an age!—that misty day we came
Up the lost truck, into the wide bright frame
Of sky, and wind that hurried to and fro
The grasses. How it blew within our hearts!
The air sang with our happiness; we ran
Together, and all earth was in our span.
It is all gone; but in me something starts
And I remember on those ancient hills
The wild delight of shaken daffodils.

—J.C.B.