应观众要求... Daffodils Remember how we picked the daffodils? Nobody else remembers, but I remember. Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy, Helping the harvest. She has forgotten. She cannot even remember you. And we sold them. It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them. Were we so poor? Old stoneman, the grocer, Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot (It was his last chance. He would die in the same great freeze as you), He persuaded us. Every Spring He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen, 'A custom of the house'. Besides, we still weren't sure we wanted to own Anything. Mainly we were hungry To convert everything to profit. Still nomads—still strangers To our whole possession. The daffodils Were incidental gilding of the deeds, Treasure trove. They simply came, And they kept on coming. As if not from the sod but falling from heaven. Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck. We knew we'd live for ever. We had not learned What a fleeting glance of the everlasting Daffodils are. Never identified The nuptial flight of the rarest ephemera— Our own days! We thought they were a windfall. Never guessed they were a last blessing. So we sold them. We worked at selling them As if employed on somebody else's Flower-farm. You bent at it In the rain of that April—your last April. We bent there toghter, among the soft shrieks Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken Of their girlish dance-frocks— Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy, Opened too early. We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter's bench, Distributed leaves among the dozens— Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered— Propped their raw butts in bucket water, Their oval, meaty butts, And sold them, sevenpence a bunch— Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth, With their odourless metals, A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold As if ice had a breath— We sold them, to wither. The crop thickened faster than we could thin it. Finally, we were overwhelmed And we lost our wedding-present scissors. Every March since they have lifted again Out of the same bulbs, the same Baby-cries from the thaw, Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers In the draughty wings of the year. On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering They return to forget you stooping there Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April, Snipping their stems. But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are. Here somewhere, blades wide open, April by April Sinking deeper Through the sod—an anchor, a cross of rust. —Ted Hughes --

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