The Bluebells
The bluebells have gone
From the mountains
Where they stood
Once azure on the slope,
In their tiers of deep blue
Among ferns
In the springtime
And summer of hope.

The bluebells still sing
To the river
That tumbles in streams
Over stones,
To the runes
Of an ice-age retreating
That clings
To the pathway it hones.

The bluebells come back
To the mountains
As sure and azure
As of old.
Do they come back
Without an emotion
To watch dreams they once gave us