Classic Poem

Sweet blue-bells we,
Mid flowers of the lea,
The likest in hue to heaven,
Our bonnets so blue
Are tinged with the dew
That drops from the sky at Even.


Our bloom more sweet
Than dark violet,
Or tulip's purple stain,
At every return
Of the dew-breathing morn,
Grows brighter and brighter again!

The wren hath her nest at the root of a tree,
And the tufted moss is the couch of the bee,
Where rain nor cold hath power to harm her;
The bed of the eagle is built in the sky,
And the bittern in rushes doth nightly lie;
Then why should Lilian's bed be warmer?