THE BLUEBELL
THE Bluebell is the sweetest flower
That waves in summer air.
Its blossoms have the mightiest power
To soothe my spirit’s care.
There is a spell in purple heath
Too wildly, sadly dear;
The violet has a fragrant breath,
But fragrance will not cheer.
The trees are bare, the sun is cold,
And seldom, seldom seen;
The heavens have lost their zone of gold,
And earth her robe of green.
And ice upon the glancing stream
Has cast its sombre shade,
And distant hills and valleys seem
The Bluebell cannot charm me now;
The heath has lost its bloom;
The violets in the glen below yield no sweet perfume.
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