Bluebell

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!

Emily Bronte