Ryton Firs

But here's the happiest light can lie on ground,

Grass sloping under trees

Alive with yellow shine of daffodils!

If quicksilver were gold,

And troubled pools of it shaking in the sun

It were not such a fancy of bickering gleam

As Ryton daffodils when the air but stirs.

And all the miles and miles of meadowland

The spring makes golden ways,

Lead here, for here the gold

Grows brightest for our eyes,

And for our hearts lovelier even than love.

So here, each spring, our daffodil festival.