The unexpected mildness after the late March frosts and snow has brought a surge of spring growth. Suddenly there are daffodils everywhere, in gardens and hedgerows, on roadsides and trading estates, ubiquitous clumps of yellow, shouting aloud, spring is here! Have there always been so many, I ask myself.  Are daffodils becoming our national symbol of spring, like the Japanese and their cherry blossom? Why not? We can boast a national daffodil anthem, once familiar to every schoolchild, Wordsworth’s famous Ode.

But are contemporary daffodils quite as Wordsworth saw them? Do they bring us quite the same thrill of joy that he experienced? It was time for a re-reading of the Ode, I decided.

Wordworth came upon his daffodils when he was walking in the Lake District. They were on the edge of a bay, or a lake – he mentions both.

                    Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

he claims. That’s a lot of daffodils, even by contemporary planting standards. A little poetic exaggeration, perhaps.

                 They stretched in never-ending line,

he goes on, and I am immediately reminded of Rotary Way. This is the road leading out of our local town towards the A1, which has been adopted by the Rotary Club. The Club is responsible for floral displays on the roundabout, and one of its big projects has been planting daffodils on either side of the road. It is half a mile long and must have taken a quantity of bulbs close to Wordsworth’s ten thousand. The planting is remarkable for its never-ending and unwaveringly straight line. The daffodils march one behind the other, four abreast, unwavering and tightly packed, holding each other up, alongside the busy road. The bright yellow line does have a certain martial jolliness about it and maybe it reminds the car drivers speeding past to Edinburgh that somewhere out there, in the world beyond the tightly closed windows and heated seats, seasons are changing. But later,

                  when on their couch they lie,

                 in pensive or in vacant mood,

does the yellow line

               flash upon their inward eye,

              and their heart with pleasure fill?

Maybe not.

Part of the problem is the stiffness of the planting. When you read the Ode carefully, you realize that the most important feature of Wordsworth’s daffodils was their dancing.

            Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

            Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

           

            Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

            Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

 

            The waves beside them danced; but they

            Out-did the sparkling waves in glee

 

The Rotarians’ yellow line is too tightly packed to dance. Indeed, it’s this dancing quality that seems to be missing from the new breeds of daffodils altogether. Our daffodils are bigger and heavier than the wild daffodils of the eighteenth century, and more liable to collapse in strong winds. Their colours are gaudier too – brighter yellow, often with deep orange trumpets or white flashes. It can give them a garish look.

But yesterday, on a cycle ride through the countryside, I was blessed with an authentic Wordsworth moment. I passed the entrance to an estate, which opened onto a wide expanse of rough grass, planted with a few young trees. The grass was covered in daffodils, not thickly planted but randomly strewn through the dark green grass, so they did indeed look like bright stars against the sky:

            Continuous as the stars that shine

            And twinkle on the milky way

I pulled up to look more closely and saw that they were naturalized wild daffodils; shorter and stockier than their hybrid descendants, with a yellow trumpet surrounded by paler petals. As the sun came out, the flowers caught the sunlight in a pale glitter of gold. I was enchanted. Then the breeze took hold of them, and every flower was moving and – yes! Dancing. At once I knew what Wordsworth meant. There was a dazzle of movement and colour and light, as if the sun was dancing. It was transporting. One could not help but feel the heart lift.

And now like Wordsworth, the recollection of it brings me joy:

            And then my heart with pleasure fills,

            And dances with the daffodils

 

                

If you never got past the much-parodied first lines of the Ode, here’s a chance to read it in full. It’s a timely eighteenth century reminder of an epiphany of joy in the natural world.

 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

By William Wordsworth

 

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

 

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

 

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.