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.
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Few things are as ephemereal as clouds and as majestic.
Clouds elicit wonder in a child making out shapes of animals changing across the sky. As adults we stare dreamily at its metamorphosis from cotton candy fluffy and cumulonimbus to grey and ominous with the whole symphony of thunder and rain. Out of the rain and staring at a storm is soothing, making one feel unremarkable but grateful and warm.
And we marvel at its freedom to roam the lands.
Daffodils. What does a Singaporean know about this yellow spring flower living in a land with no seasons? Yet imagining how it may look like dancing in the breeze in the English meadows, the scenery would be enchanting from Wordsworth’s eyes, one who enjoys a moment of solitude like most loners do, with quiet imaginings.
