I tourismed lonely in a crowd

That spills o’er every vale and hill,

When all at once I heard them loud,

Tramping on golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Shooting and posing in the breeze.

 

Continuous as the lights that shine,

And twinkle on the motor way,

They stretched in never ending line,

Enjoying their nice holiday,

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Opening their wallets in bankrupt dance.

 

October 13, 2002

Grasmere, England

© Jim Rovira