My neighborhood of Cambridge, Massachusetts, very close to Harvard University, is used to the brightest regalia, dresses, flags, pennants; all attract attention and remind that all our pomp is of an old type and its own. Still, we pay special attention when the daffodils parade, dressed in the vibrant shades of yellow once reserved only for the Chinese emperor. They are always sharp, elegant, dramatic,
his presence announced by his central trumpet that one would expect at least Handel or Purcell of and would not be at all surprised to hear, high-pitched, regal, ceremonious. The daffodil seems tailor-made for this.

For the past few days, cold at home, I have been impatient to see how the arrangements progress, the insistent growth of the stems, the bulging stems where, very soon, the yellow trumpet will emerge to capture all eyes.

There is excitement in the air.

I’m sorry, and I’m glad to see these stately daffodils hard at work… because they only come once a year and stay for very little time. You do well to call me and remind me that your time is near and that I must be ready; ready to contemplate, enjoy, savor, their brilliant, memorable time, but always too short.

The name of the most beautiful boy in the world.

Narcissus is the common English name for this graceful flower. But it’s not his real name. Like carefully treading nobles in our democratic days, daffodils have a sense of when to use their common name, never forgetting their true pedigree. In fact, they are Narcissus, the botanical name for a genus of mainly hardy, mostly spring-flowering bulbs in the Amaryllis family, native to Europe, North Africa, and Asia. The publication “Daffodils for North American Gardens” cites between 50 and 100 wild species.

The story of Narcissus comes from Greek mythology. There a handsome young man of unsurpassed beauty became so obsessed with his own absorbing gaze that, gazing at himself in a pool of water, he fell and drowned. In some variations of the myth, the young man died of hunger and thirst because he could do nothing but marvel at himself.

We all know people like that. . . but the gods did not commemorate his bewitching looks and his foolishness as they did Narcissus’s by marking the place where he lay with Narcissus’ impressive plant.

Wary, sensitive to Narcissus’ foolishness, daffodils recount this story (and his true identity) only to uncritical admirers; they are just “daffodils” to everyone else. I am such a vetted, sensitive fan; This is how they have shared it with me, discreetly but with pride. It is rare, they say, to be commemorated like this by the gods of Olympus, and so it is.

Description

As all daffodils will attest, yours is a good look, a “stunner.” It has a trumpet-, bowl-, or disk-shaped central crown surrounded by a ring of six floral leaves called the perianth that joins in a tube at the anterior edge of the 3-lobed ovary. The seeds are black, round and swollen with a hard covering. The three outer segments are sepals and the three inner segments are petals.

Of course, while all daffodils know these facts precisely (and many more), they understand that you may not be botanically minded. Therefore, they only demand one thing from you: unconditional admiration. It seems little to require such an exuberance of color and joy. If you have any objections, they are not above reminding us that all varieties of Narcissus contain the poisonous alkaloid lycorine, mainly in the bulb but also in the leaves. A hint of this usually gets the compliment deferred. Daffodils are used to generous praise and don’t hesitate to remind you if yours prove insufficient. The same is often the case with what is abundant, extravagant, and dazzlingly beautiful, constantly praised. . . they have their high standards to uphold, making sure we deliver. We give them unquestioning obedience; they cast upon us the blessing of their beauty. We are happy to do it; such beauty is rare and disappears too soon.

The love story between daffodils and poets.

Poets, for whom a beautiful thing is a joy forever, have only to see a field of daffodils to become, well, poetic. In 1807 William Wordsworth published in “Poems in Two Volumes” words that he had first written in 1807.

Every daffodil knows, and with joy too, these magnificent words of beauty, optimism and satisfaction:

“I wandered alone as a cloud
That floats high over valleys and hills,
When suddenly I saw a crowd
a multitude of dancing daffodils;
Along the lake, under the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside her danced, but
He overcame the waves sparkling in jubilation: —
A poet could not stop being gay
In such a laughing company:
I looked, and I looked, but I didn’t think
What wealth the spectacle had brought me:

Because often when I lie on my sofa
In the vacant or pensive mood,
They flash in that inner eye
which is the joy of loneliness,
And then my heart fills with pleasure,
And dance with the daffodils. “

Other poets, and those of hopeful poetic tendencies, have also featured daffodils with their efforts.

Amy Lowell (died 1925) was not as elegant and stylish as daffodils prefer; Her words were very loaded in the Victorian style.

To an early daffodil. . .

“Yellow trumpeter from Laggard Spring though!
You herald of the myriad flowers of the rich Summer. . . “

It’s not his favorite poem. . . but they honor the
despite the poet She meant well.

They prefer Robert Herrick (d. 1674) to Daffodils

“Beautiful daffodils, we cry to see
You rush to leave so soon. . . “

Herrick can make them maudlin and sentimental. Dead so soon, they prefer that such notions, and obsequies, be private. Always close to the surface of her beauty is the reality of death and oblivion too soon.

“In the Time of Daffodils” by EE Cummings (d. 1962) is a poem of statement and purpose. He keeps them focused:

“in time of daffodils (who knows
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how”

They appreciate their history and all the poets who expand and polish it.

However, on any given day of their too-short annual stay, they like this better; Song “April Showers” by Al Jolson (1921).

“And where you see clouds over the hills, you will soon see multitudes of daffodils.”

And always,

“and the daffodils looked beautiful today
It looked lovely. (From The Cranberries’ “Daffodil Lament,” 2002.)

In fact they do.