Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DAFFODILS, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DAFFODILS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: He liked the daffodils. He liked to see
Last Line: And he would give them all to have him back.


He liked the daffodils. He liked to see
Them nodding in the hedgerows cheerily
Along the dusty lanes as he went by --
Nodding and laughing to a fellow -- Ay,
Nodding and laughing till you'd almost think
They, too, enjoyed the jest.
Without a wink
That solemn butler said it, calm and smug,
Deep-voiced as though he talked into a jug:
"His lordship says he won't require no more
Crocks rivetted or mended till the war
Is over."
Lord! He'd asked to have a wire
The moment that his lordship should desire
To celebrate the occasion fittingly
By a wild burst of mending crockery
Like a true Englishman, and hang expense!
He'd had to ask it, though he'd too much sense
To lift a lash or breathe a word before
His lordship's lordship closed the heavy door.
And then he'd laughed. Lord! but it did him good
That quiet laugh. And somewhere in the wood
Behind the Hall there, a woodpecker laughed
Right out aloud as though he'd gone clean daft --
Right out aloud he laughed, the brazen bird,
As if he didn't care a straw who heard --
But then he'd not his daily bread to earn
By mending crocks.
And now at every turn
The daffodils are laughing quietly
Nodding and laughing to themselves, as he
Chuckled: Now there's a patriot, real true-blue!

It seemed the daffodils enjoyed it too --
The fun of it. He wished that he could see --
Old solemn-mug -- them laughing quietly
At him. But then, he'd never have a dim
Idea they laughed, and, least of all, at him.
He'd never dream they could be laughing at
A butler.
'Twould be good to see the fat
Old peach-cheek in his solemn black and starch
Parading in his pompous parlour-march
Across that field of laughing daffodils.
'Twould be a sight to make you skip up hills,
Ay, crutch and all, and never feel your pack,
To see a butler in his starch and black
Among the daffodils, ridiculous
As that old bubbly-jock with strut and fuss --
Though that was rather rough upon the bird!
For all his pride, he didn't look absurd
Among the flowers -- nor even that black sow
Grunting and grubbing in among them now.

And he was glad he hadn't got a trade
That starched the mother-wit in you, and made
A man look silly in a field of flowers.
'Twas better mending crocks, although for hours
You hobbled on -- ay! and, maybe for days --
Hungry and cold along the muddy ways
Without a job. And even when the sun
Was shining, 'twas not altogether fun
To lose the chance of earning a few pence
In these days: though 'twas well he'd got the sense
To see the funny side of things. It cost
You nothing, laughing to yourself. You lost
Far more by going fiddle-faced through life
Looking for trouble.
He would tell his wife
When he got home. But lord, she'd never see
What tickled him so mightily, not she!
She'd only look up puzzled-like, and say
She didn't wonder at his lordship. Nay,
With tripe and trotters at the price they were
You'd got to count your coppers and take care
Of every farthing.
Jack would see the fun --
Ay, Jack would see the joke. Jack was his son --
The youngest of the lot. And, man-alive,
'Twas queer that only one of all the five
Had got a twinkle in him -- all the rest
Dull as ditchwater to the merriest jest.
Good lads enough they were, their mother's sons;
And they'd all pluck enough to face the guns
Out at the front. They'd got their mother's pluck:
And he was proud of them, and wished them luck.
That was no laughing matter -- though 'twas well
Maybe if you could crack a joke in hell
And shame the devil. Jack, at least, would fight
As well as any though his heart was light.
Jack was the boy for fighting and for fun;
And he was glad to think he'd got a son
Who, even facing bloody death, would see
That little joke about the crockery,
And chuckle as he charged.
His thoughts dropped back
Through eighteen years; and he again saw Jack
At the old home beneath the Malvern hills,
A little fellow plucking daffodils,
A little fellow who could scarcely walk,
Yet chuckling as he snapped each juicy stalk
And held up every yellow bloom to smell,
Poking his tiny nose into the bell
And sniffing the fresh scent, and chuckling still
As though he'd secrets with each daffodil.
Ay, he could see again the little fellow
In his blue frock among that laughing yellow,
And plovers in their sheeny black and white
Flirting and tumbling in the morning light
About his curly head. He still could see,
Shutting his eyes, as plain as plain could be,
Drift upon drift, those long-dead daffodils
Against the far green of the Malvern hills,
Nodding and laughing round his little lad,
As if to see him happy made them glad --
Nodding and laughing...
They were nodding now,
The daffodils, and laughing -- yet, somehow,
They didn't seem so merry now...
And he
Was fighting in a bloody trench maybe
For very life this minute...
They missed Jack,
And he would give them all to have him back.





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