I don't know WHY it worked on me that way; it just kept singing in my heart all day, and I could shut my eyes and go to sleep seeing buttercups in a gold sheet all over our Big Hill, although there never was a single one there; and meadows full of daisies, which were things father said were a pest he couldn't tolerate, because they spread so, and he grubbed up every one he found.
Yet that piece filled our meadow until I imagined I could roll on daisies.

They might be a pest to farmers, but sheets of them were pretty good if you were burning with fever.

Between the buttercups and the daisies I left the bed with a light head and wobbly legs.
Of course I wasn't an idiot.

I knew when I looked from our south window exactly what was to be seen.

The person who wrote that piece was the idiot.