Who can count these stars, who can count wild daffodils?
Who can count the cost, weigh the gold of daffodils?

Here, there is a peace plan, there a war.
Poetry’s no help. No one is consoled by daffodils.

Where one poet saw a crowd, a host,
another – as if it were his soul – sold his daffodils.

Look at mine, still in flower! Touch them, they crackle.
Bought them for a song. This, to the same old daffodils.