The Bluebell (Anne Brontë)

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.