A house
with daffodils in it is a house lit up, whether or no the sun be
shining outside. Daffodils in a green bowl--and let it snow if it
will.
Wordsworth wrote a poem about daffodils. He wrote poems about
most flowers. If a plant would be unique it must be one which had
never inspired him to song. But he did not write about daffodils
in a bowl. The daffodils which I celebrate are stationary;
Wordsworth's lived on the banks of Ullswater, and fluttered and
tossed their heads and danced in the breeze. He hints that in
their company even he might have been jocose--a terrifying
thought, which makes me happier to have mine safely indoors. When
he first saw them there (so he says) he gazed and gazed and
little thought what wealth the show to him had brought. Strictly
speaking, it hadn't brought him in anything at the moment, but he
must have known from his previous experiences with the daisy and
the celandine that it was good for a certain amount.
A simple daffodil to him
Was so much matter for a slim
Volume at two and four.
You may say, of course, that I am in no better case, but then I
have never reproached other people (as he did) for thinking of a
primrose merely as a primrose.
But whether you prefer them my way or Wordsworth's--indoors or
outdoors--will make no difference in this further matter to which
finally I call your attention.
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