The Bluebell
A
fine
and
subtle
spirit
dwells
In
every
little
flower,
Each
one
its
own
sweet
feeling
breathes
With
more
or
less
of
power.
There
is
a
silent
eloquence
In
every
wild
bluebell
That
fills
my
softened
heart
with
bliss
That
words
could
never
tell.
Yet
I
recall
not
long
ago
A
bright
and
sunny
day,
'Twas
when
I
led
a
toilsome
life
So
many
leagues
away;
That
day
along
a
sunny
road
All
carelessly
I
strayed,
Between
two
banks
where
smiling
flowers
Their
varied
hues
displayed.
Before
me
rose
a
lofty
hill,
Behind
me
lay
the
sea,
My
heart
was
not
so
heavy
then
As
it
was
wont
to
be.
Less
harassed
than
at
other
times
I
saw
the
scene
was
fair,
And
spoke
and
laughed
to
those
around,
As
if
I
knew
no
care.
But
when
I
looked
upon
the
bank
My
wandering
glances
fell
Upon
a
little
trembling
flower,
A
single
sweet
bluebell.
Whence
came
that
rising
in
my
throat,
That
dimness
in
my
eye?
Why
did
those
burning
drops
distil
—
Those
bitter
feelings
rise?
O,
that
lone
flower
recalled
to
me
My
happy
childhood's
hours
When
bluebells
seemed
like
fairy
gifts
A
prize
among
the
flowers,
Those
sunny
days
of
merriment
When
heart
and
soul
were
free,
And
when
I
dwelt
with
kindred
hearts
That
loved
and
cared
for
me.
I
had
not
then
mid
heartless
crowds
To
spend
a
thankless
life
In
seeking
after
others'
weal
With
anxious
toil
and
strife.
'Sad
wanderer,
weep
those
blissful
times
That
never
may
return!'
The
lovely
floweret
seemed
to
say,
And
thus
it
made
me
mourn.
