Bluebells
By John Herlihy

Bluebells open,
But they do not chime.
Our spring time token,
In our hearts, they rhyme.
Their buds now awoken,
Ever slowly over time.
They heal what is broken,
Their perfume sublime.

To cascade in glorious shower,
Their aura ambrosial.
No stranger in the bower,
They recall a place paradisal.
Created by God’s infinite power,
They know nothing of struggle.
Their beauty fills each passing hour,
Listen carefully to hear them rustle.

Free of all toil, free of all strife,
Their freedom no one can tame.
The bluebell lives a simple life,
Without recourse to sin or blame.
All the while, they never knew,
Their mystery never openly told.
How blue they were, how beautiful,
Yet another miracle there to behold.