On my morning walk I plucked a bluebell
To ornament my windowsill.
It got my finest china cup
And a pretty view as well.
Soon the sweetest scent went drifting through the room,
It had caught a bit of breeze—
The gentle violet bloom.
Its slender stem went trembling
And dancing with the light;
Its petals softly shimmered—
It filled me with delight.
That afternoon I idled,
Doing nothing much of sorts.
If I recall it rightly,
I counted knots along the boards,
When suddenly I heard a ringing—
A ringing of a bell,
Yes—sure enough it sounded
From my windowsill.
Though spooked, I rose,
Slowly I crept closer,
For faintly still it seemed to ring,
And wonder won me over.
So startled was I by the sight,
My cheeks grew pale as snow;
The bluebell, bright this morning,
Now drooped its head so low.
Its stem was weak and bending,
Its color turned to gray,
And while I stood in horror,
A petal slipped away.
Then came again the ringing,
A sound so small and sad,
I took the bluebell gently,
And held it in my hand—
Not sure whose loneliness it was
That settled in the room;
How cruel I’d been to tear apart
The meadow and its bloom.