The Poetry Corner

The Blue Bell

By Emily Bronte

The blue bell 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 The earth its 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 blue bell 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 heather-bell 'Tis better far, away; I know how fast my tears would swell To see it smile today; And that wood flower that hides so shy Beneath the mossy stone Its balmy scent and dewy eye: 'Tis not for them I moan. It is the slight and stately stem, The blossom's silvery blue, The buds hid like a sapphire gem In sheaths of emerald hue. 'Tis these that breathe upon my heart A calm and softening spell That if it makes the tear-drop start Has power to soothe as well. For these I weep, so long divided Through winter's dreary day, In longing weep, but most when guided On withered banks to stray. If chilly then the light should fall Adown the dreary sky And gild the dank and darkened wall With transient brilliancy, How do I yearn, how do I pine For the time of flowers to come, And turn me from that fading shine To mourn the fields of home