When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park
we saw a few daffodils close to the water side.
We fancied that the lake had floated the seeds ashore
and that the little colony had so sprung up.
But as we went along there were more
and yet more and at last under the boughs
of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them
along the shore, about the breadth
of a country turnpike road.
I never saw daffodils so beautiful
they grew among the mossy stones
about and about them, some rested
their heads upon these stones
as on a pillow for weariness
and the rest tossed and reeled and danced
and seemed as if they verily laughed
with the wind that blew upon them
over the lake,
they looked so gay ever glancing
ever changing. This wind blew
directly over the lake to them.
There was here and there a little knot
and a few stragglers a few yards higher up
but they were so few as not to disturb
the simplicity and unity and life
of that one busy highway.
Source: This excerpt taken from Journals of Dorothy Wordsworth: The Alfoxden Journal 1798, The Grasmere Journals 1800-1803, ed. Mary Moorman (New York: Oxford UP, 1971), 109-110.