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.

Anne Brontë

If you would like to listen to the poem, go here.

For a lovely Norwegian song about bluebells, listen to this,