A poem from A Month of Sundays.
A clutch of daffodils stopped my eye
As Wordsworth whispered verses to my ear —
Its yellow now in memory as bright
As in that glancing moment two days past —
Of recollections flowering and clear
That poetry could summon to make last
In extended moments of rhyme and sight.
The color lingers like a consolation
No destiny can ever quite deny,
A resurrection of a passing hour:
Here, where eternity admits its longing
In love for the comings and goings of time.