Bluebell

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.