A fine and subtle spirit
In every little flower,
Each one its own sweet feeling
With more or less of power.
There is a silent
In every wild
That fills my softened heart with
That words could never tell.
Yet I recall not long agoA bright and sunny day,'Twas when I led a toilsome
So many leagues away;
That day along a sunny
All carelessly I strayed,
Between two banks where smiling
Their varied hues displayed.
Before me rose a lofty hill,
Behind me lay the sea,
My heart was not so heavy
As it was wont to be.
Less harassed than at other timesI saw the scene was fair,
And spoke and laughed to those around,
As if I knew no care.
But when I looked upon the
My wandering glances
Upon a little trembling flower,
A single sweet bluebell.
Whence came that rising in my throat,
That dimness in my eye?
Why did those burning drops distil —Those bitter feelings rise?
O, that lone flower recalled to
My happy childhood's
When bluebells seemed like fairy giftsA prize among the flowers,
Those sunny days of
When heart and soul were free,
And when I dwelt with kindred
That loved and cared for me.
I had not then mid heartless
To spend a thankless
In seeking after others'
With anxious toil and strife. 'Sad wanderer, weep those blissful
That never may return!'The lovely floweret seemed to say,
And thus it made me mourn.
