It's April, but it doesn't quite feel like spring yet. Sure--spring is coming--everyone knows that, but it's still more like a promise than a reality at this point, which I have found quite discouraging of late. But, today, this poem by Wordsworth came in my inbox; and as I was leaving for church this morning [to hear more about the joyfully realized promise of Easter Sunday that even Thomas gets to see and feel], I looked at my own daffodils--themselves "dancing" in today's strong winds--and I realized that they are trustworthy witnesses to the promise of spring. And even if spring feels a tantalizing way off just yet, it will arrive--my daffodils are proof. And I felt a little better.
Sometimes you just have to agree with Thomas--seeing is believing, and I can never fault him for wanting signs of warmth and new life that he can touch, especially when good news seems so far away.
The Daffodils
by William Wordsworth
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.
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.