The Bluebell

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

About 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 the fleecy clouds that floated by.

And swiftly 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 found to hold
A tiny star that gleamed like gold.