Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest.
She has forgotten.S
he cannot even remember you.
And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor?
Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
(It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you) ,
He persuaded us.
Every SpringHe always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
'A custom of the house'.
Ted Hughes
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