DAFFODILS
FATHERED by March, the daffodils are here. First, all the air grew keen with yesterday, And once a thrush from out some hollow gray On a field's edge, where whitening stalks made cheer, Fluted the last unto the budding year; Now, that the wind lets loose from orchard spray Plum bloom and peach bloom down the dripping way, Their punctual gold through the wet blades they rear. Oh, fleet and sweet! A light to all that pass Below, in the cramped yard, close to the street, Long-stemmed one flames behind the palings bare, The whole of April in a tuft of grass. Scarce here, soon will it be—oh, sweet and fleet! — Gone like a snatch of song upon the stair.