Poems by Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell

  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!