The daffodils of spring are sighing.
Like star-cross’d lovers doomed and dying.
Each tender, tilted, tranquil bloom
too briefly lit the twilight gloom.
They gleamed and glowed in gardens, golden.
Too beautiful to be beholden
to mortals, buying by the bunch,
from shops, like they were buying lunch.
They stow in vase these fragrant flowers
to brighten up the hopeless hours
(their little lives that will not last,
for fate has found them fading fast.)
The daffodils of spring are burning.
Like comets, year by year, returning;
their briefest blaze of short-lived glory,
a vestige of the springtime story.