Me: Look “a crowd, a host of golden daffodils”
Princess (patiently, as though talking to the feeble minded): Yes, lots of daffodils.
Me: “I wander’d lonely as a cloud”.
Her: No you didn’t.
Me: Eh? It’s a poem.
Her: But you can’t wander lonely as a cloud.
Me (truculently): Why not?
Her: Look up, there are loads of them. Clouds are never lonely.
I can’t help feeling that this astute observation is probably as true in the Lake District as in Ireland. I’m holding off on our discussion of poetic licence for another day.