|English Bluebells by Roger Thomas|
In Spring, English woodlands turn sapphire, carpeted by bluebells. Oddly, though, there aren’t many poems which mention them. Perhaps they are too humble ? I prize them, though, beyond many garden flowers, for they turn up year after year. There is a poem, by Anne Bronte, but iut’s a bit twee for tough little b’s like bluebells. But here an extract:
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.
Original Source: English Bluebells