When the Squire entered the breakfast parlour, Kate was just coming in
from the garden. The dew of the morning was on her cheeks, the scent
of the sweet-briar and the daffodils in her hair, the songs of the thrush
and the linnet in her heart. She was beautiful as Hebe, and fresh as
Aurora. He clasped her face between his large hands, and she lifted the
bunch of daffodils to his face, and asked, "Are they not beautiful? Do
you know what Mr. Wordsworth says about them, Father?"
"Not I! I never read his foolishness."
"His 'foolishness' is music; I can tell you that. Listen sir,--
"'A smile of last year's sun strayed down the hills,
And lost its way within yon windy wood;
Lost through the months of snow--but not for good:
I found it in a clump of daffodils.'