Wordsworth wanders «lonely as a Cloud» and suddenly comes upon a crowd of golden daffodils beside the lake, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. The poem counts them in the thousands, like the stars of the Milky Way, in a joy so contagious that even the waves seem to envy it.
But the essential thing comes at the end, and it is memory: when the poet lies on his couch «in vacant or in pensive mood», the daffodils flash again upon «that inward eye / Which is the bliss of solitude», and his heart dances with them once more. Nature not as spectacle, but as something kept within that consoles long after.