(To Auntie Bessie)
A host, a host of gold foretold,
Dancing there—ten thousandfold!
Beneath the trees, beside the lake—
Nature's laurel for her sweet sake:
A callow sprig, bloom so fair,
A jonquil, gilded, unaware,
Aglow in nascent vernal light—
Epiphany without respite—
Gentle, capricious, fluttering whim
Rolled then boiled then pummeled grim,
Forcing fury of the thirst
Upon reflective waves accursed—
Snapped! Then tossed upon the water!
A glorious son born of a daughter,
From a host, a host of gold enscrolled—
She treads the teary depths untold!
Then oft in flaxen, pensive mood,
Bearing brunt of solitude,
Her heart again, redeeméd, fills
And dances with the daffodils.