We wondered - nay, we said out loud
'Oh happy, happy daffodils!'
Alas but we had not allowed
For him who haunts these gloomy hills
His muffler flapping in the breeze
Muttering and stumbling through the trees
Lugubrious as the sheep that pine
And sulk behind each boulder damp
He stands disconsolate for a time
Underneath his dripping gamp
While all about the raindrops fall
We wish to god he would not call
We wish to hell he'd wander on
We've never been so sorely tried
A daffodil thus gazed upon
Might well consider suicide
He stares and stares, 'How rude!' we sing
'What blank despair to us you bring'
For oft, as in this bog we lie
In vacant or in pensive mood
He'll loom upon that inward eye
Which is the curse of solitude
And then our hearts of pleasure drain
To see that dreary bard again.
by William Bealby-Wright
