Gold of the daffodil, drawn
Out of the cup of the dawn,
Gold of the daffodil, born
In the bright mines of the morn,
Gold of the daffodil, spun
On the warm loom of the sun,
Flood through my spirit, and smite
Me with thine orient light!
I that am pallid and poor,
Wasted by winter away,
Be thou my succor and cure!
Quicken my questioning clay!
That I may rouse me and sing,
Touch thou my pulses with spring!
by: Clinton Scollard (1860-1932)
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