The Bluebell (wiersz klasyka)

Bronte Emily Jane

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 fragnant breath,
  But fragnance 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!

przysłano: 5 marca 2010

Bronte Emily Jane

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