The Bluebell, gedicht van 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, 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

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 sweet Bluebell

'Tis better far away

I know how fast my tears would swell

To see it smile to-day

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall

Adown that dreary sky

And gild yon dank and darkened wall

With transient brilliancy

How do I weep, how do I pine

For the time of flowers to come

And turn me from that fading shine

To mourn the fields of home!