Traveling to fishing spots on the river, oft I cut through meadows. Remnants of old farms in the form of foundations rise above the meadows low spring growth. Silos, house, granary made of inert materials of stone and mortar mark it's past lay out. The structures are lone gone, but flowers like the Daffodils grow around the main homes old ruins.
I can only imagine how the hearty spring flower, that was a hybrid shipped from Holland, arrived in the forest. It must have been a gift of the farmer to his wife purchased on a trip to the towns farm supply. It's early season bloom was very welcomed after a hard pent up winter they must have endured.
It's colorful presence on the cotton table cloth started the men to the fields at dawn in the early planting season of spring.
Daffodils are not native to north America, but are a bulb similar to the tulip. It's hardy ability to survive the cold in the short growing season of the north made it a favorite of pioneers.
The following, by William Wordsworth, is a well known poem from a collection of the English Masters during the Romantic Period of the early 1800s.
I Wander 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 stretch in never ending line
Along the margin of the bay;
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
For oft when I am on my couch I lie
In vacant or 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.
Sweet Is The Lore That Nature Brings