There is a story I have heard—

A poet learned it from a bird,

And kept its music, every word—

A story of a dim ravine,

O’er which the towering tree-tops lean,

With one blue rift of sky between;

And there, two thousand years ago,

A little flower, as white as snow,

Swayed in the silence to and fro.

Day after day with longing eye,

The floweret watched the narrow sky,

And fleecy clouds that floated by.

And through the darkness, night by night,

One gleaming star would climb the height,

And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight.

Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,

And the rising of its favorite star,

A slow change came—but not to mar;

For softly o’er its petals white

There crept a blueness like the light

Of skies upon a summer night;

And in its chalice, I am told,

The bonny bell was found to hold

A tiny star that gleamed like gold.

And bluebells of the Scottish land

Are loved on every foreign strand

Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand.

Now, little people, sweet and true,

I find a lesson here for you,

Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue:

The patient child whose watchful eye

Strives after all things pure and high,

Shall take their image by and by.