I crept into a yellow church
And folded there my wings
And heard, as blossom hears the day,
A cycle spun from songs.

The poems were by Dickinson
And one by one they came
Till two and thirty stood in line,
Their meters all the same,

Until the sound of anapest
And dactyl seemed as far
As ancient lute or mandolin
Played on a distant shore.

Mere two and thirty daffodils
Could never be enough.
With verses, though, by Dickinson,
They might have stopped at five.