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Bluebell Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Bluebells of New England by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  2. The Bluebell by Anonymous
  3. The Voice of the Bluebell by Ruby Archer
  4. Bluebell Ring by Hilda Conkling
  5. The Bluebell by Emily Brontë
  6. To a Mountain Bluebell by Mary Baird Finch
  7. Little Bluebell by Jennie Boyer

  1. The Bluebells of New England

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    The roses are a regal troop,
    And modest folk the daisies;
    But, Bluebells of New England,
    To you I give my praises—

    To you, fair phantoms in the sun,
    Whom merry Spring discovers,
    With bluebirds for your laureates,
    And honey-bees for lovers.

    The south-wind breathes, and lo! you throng
    This rugged land of ours:
    I think the pale blue clouds of May
    Drop down, and turn to flowers!

    By cottage doors along the roads
    You show your winsome faces,
    And, like the spectre lady, haunt
    The lonely woodland places.

    All night your eyes are closed in sleep,
    Kept fresh for day's adorning:
    Such simple faith as yours can see
    God's coming in the morning!

    You lead me by your holiness
    To pleasant ways of duty;
    You set my thoughts to melody,
    You fill me with your beauty.

    Long may the heavens give you rain,
    The sunshine its caresses,
    Long may the woman that I love
    Entwine you in her tresses!

  2. The Bluebell

    by Anonymous

    There is a story I have heard—
    A poet learned it of a bird,
    And kept its music every word—

    A story of a dim ravine,
    O'er which the towering tree tops lean,
    With one blue rift of sky between;

    And there, two thousand years ago,
    A little flower as white as snow
    Swayed in the silence to and fro.

    Day after day, with longing eye,
    The floweret watched the narrow sky,
    And fleecy clouds that floated by.

    And through the darkness, night by night,
    One gleaming star would climb the height,
    And cheer the lonely floweret's sight.

    Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
    And the rising of its favorite star,
    A slow change came—but not to mar;

    For softly o'er its petals white
    There crept a blueness, like the light
    Of skies upon a summer night;

    And in its chalice, I am told,
    The bonny bell was formed to hold
    A tiny star that gleamed like gold.

    Now, little people, sweet and true,
    I find a lesson here for you
    Writ in the floweret's bell of blue:

    The patient child whose watchful eye
    Strives after all things pure and high,
    Shall take their image by and by.

  3. The Voice of the Bluebell

    by Ruby Archer

    On a bleak and barren boulder,
    With no branches to enfold her,
    No soft earth to touch her kindly, or support the fragile form,—
    Lives a tender little flower,
    All unharmed amid the power
    Of the crushing avalanches and the awful thunder storm.

    There she blossoms all securely,
    Leads her life of worship purely,
    Nor desires the luring valleys or the richer, safer land.
    Snow and sunshine are her treasure,
    And her trembling is of pleasure,
    For our Father holds her gently "in the hollow of His hand."

    Mortals, hearken to her singing.
    Hear! The words are downward winging,
    As her blue and rosy petals to the breezes are unfurled:
    "Be ye simple and confiding,
    E'er in purity abiding,
    And to know your God, come higher. Ye must dwell above the world."

  4. Bluebell Ring

    by Hilda Conkling

    Bluebells all in one
    Like a piece of sky,
    Nodding to the faint air
    With still faces,
    Stirring a little,
    Holding their breath for wonder
    But all the time friendly
    To any one who passes. . . .

  5. The Bluebell

    by Emily Brontë

    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!

  6. To a Mountain Bluebell

    by Mary Baird Finch

    Little flower of bonny blue—
    Welcome is thy tender hue,
    Tinted like an ocean shell,
    Dainty little mountain bell;
    Blooming o'er the murky mines,
    'Neath the moaning of the pines,
    And the aromatic fir,
    Neighbor of the juniper;
    In the music of thy bells
    Tell me of the mountain dells,
    And the mountain breezes blown
    In thy plaintive undertone.

    With the song of mountain rills
    Hurrying to the hungry mills,
    Whisper low and true to me
    Of a prehistoric sea;
    Of the Vulcan hand that brought
    Order from the ruin wrought.
    Where the mountain chain was born,
    In that dim chaotic morn,
    Slowly rose each hill and lea—
    Islands in a golden sea,
    Blue as are thy bonny bells
    Singing of the ocean shells.

    Canst thou tell the low, sweet words
    Murmured by the strangest birds,
    Where the brown nun sits and sings,
    Crooning by the mountain springs.
    Flower of the tender hue
    Like the eyes that once I knew,
    Eyes that haunt me yet afar
    Where thy blue-robed sisters are;
    Eyes like some sweet placid water
    Had'st my little mountain daughter,
    And I dream of her at night
    In her lonely bed of white,
    Sleeping near the Western mountains,
    By the bluebells and the fountains.

  7. Little Bluebell

    by Jennie Boyer

    Dear little bluebell blooming alone, all alone,
    Say, will you miss me when I am gone?
    You are drooping your head—I, too, am sad—
    Saddened and weary when I ought to be glad.

    I love thee, little bluebell, in your own shady bower,
    The sweetest and loveliest, dear little flower;
    I'll pluck one tiny bud in remembrance of thee;
    Little bluebell I'm going away beyond the blue sea.

    This day, little bluebell, a bride I shall be;
    This is why I say farewell to thee;
    It may be for years, it may be forever;
    But I shall not forget thee, never, oh never.

    Little bluebell, when the stars shine above,
    Or you hear the notes of some lonely dove,
    Think, oh, think of moments gone by;
    But think not of the past with a sigh.

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