Blue Bell, The – Emily Bronte

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, seen;

The heavens have lost their zone of gold

The earth its robe of green,

And ice upon the glancing stream

Has cast its somber shade

And distant hills and valleys seem

In frozen mist arrayed –

The bluebell cannot charm me now

The heath has lost its bloom,

The violets in the glen below

They yield no sweet perfume.

But though I mourn the heather-bell ‘Tis better far, away;

I know how fast my tears would swell

To see it smile to-day;

And that wood flower that hides so shy

Beneath the mossy stone

Its balmy scent and dewy eye:

‘Tis not for them I moan.

It is the slight and stately stem,

The blossom’s silvery blue,

The buds hid like a sapphire gem

In sheaths of emerald hue.

‘Tis these that breathe upon my heart

A calm and softening spell

That if it makes the tear-drop start

Has the power to soothe as well.

For these I weep, so long divided

Through winter’s dreary day,

In longing weep but most when guided

On withered banks to stray.

If chilly then the light should fall Adown the dreary sky

And gild the dank and darkened wall With transient brilliancy,

How do I yearn, how do I pine

For the time of flowers to come,

And turn me from that fading shine

To mourn the fields of home