Daffodils

I question with the amber daffodils,

Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares;

Where king-cup buds gleam out between the rills,

And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares.

By pastured brows and swelling hedge-row bowers,

From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip,

My hot face rolled in their faint-scented flowers,

I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip.

All weird sensations of the fervent prime

Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move

The glow of gracious impulse; thought and time

Renew my love with life, my life with love.

When this old world new-born puts glories on,

I cannot think she never will be won.