How gently rock yon poplars high Against the reach of primrose sky With heaven's pale candles stored.
And bitter waxed the fray; Brother with brother spake no word When they met in the way.
O fateful flower beside the rill- The Daffodil, the daffodil!
we wish for more in life rather than more of it.
The moon looks upon many night flowers; the night flowers see but one moon.
And old affront will stir the heart Through years of rankling pain.