Gold days give way to sudden rain,
   But what, I ask, of that?
For I am my own man again,
   And gloom comes sprawling flat.
Let grouchers grieve and nurse the hump
   Because bleak winds still shout;
But I don't care a tupp'ny dump;
From zero -- whoop! -- my spirits jump:
   The daffodils are out.

Hail bloom of golden promise!  Hail!
   These trumpets sing of hope.
To mock grim Winter's weakening flail
   And shame the misanthrope.
All hail!  And hail again, for luck.
   Hence, cold and clammy doubt!
Come, Spring!  Come, honey-bee and suck;
Into this heady nector tuck!
   The daffodils are out!

Spring for the young?  Ah, foolish claim.
   Spring burgeons for the old,
To touch old hearts again with flame
   And oust the creeping cold.
So, as each golden cup now spills
   Its gladness all about,
I, freed again of age's ills,
Grow dilly with the daffodils.
   The daffodils are out!

Yet, am I old?  Who said I'm old?
   Ah, Spring's sweet alchemy!
Gaze now upon me and behold
   A recharged battery.
I waggle my rheumatic knees
   And, as the years I flout,
Hot blood incontinently flees
Along my hardening arteries
   The daffodils are out!

Birds call; the buds grow fat; I sing
   A daft, delicious lay.
Prim primulas are carpeting
   My somewhat wobbly way.
Oh, vernal verve!  September's spree!
   I laugh!  I sing!  I shout!
With dragonfly and drunken bee
I go right off my rocker.  Gee!
   The wotsernames are out! 

"Den"
Herald, 5 September 1935, p6