This morning I chanced upon daffodils as a wandering lonely cloud, in Wordsworth’s own emotion recollected on poet’s couch.
Byron would call the daffodils poem puerile. Dancing daffodils may be puerile imagery but when there is wind there is wave. Images occur in waves, one after the other. Puerile is childish but it is more toward childlike, a simple joy. A child is father of man.
Here in the barbers shop, talking across continents on whatasup,I told my son I was under a barber’s shroud. There were no daffodils on an old head. But rest assured they waved in it.
The barber asked everything? I said yes,everything.
The Morning is Just a Dream 