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 fragrant breath,
⁠But fragrance 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.