Bluebell at the wayside
nodding your assent
to summer, and summer’s end;
nodding, on your slender stem
your undemurring yes
to the small role life
offers you — a few weeks
seasoning the hill-foot grasses
with shakes of blue…
You accept, and acquiesce
thereby, to any wind,
though the winds tease:
‘Flower,’ they ask —
’d’you want to be noticed?’
Yes, yes, noticed!
‘Or rather left alone?’ Yes,
left perfectly alone! ‘Flower,’
they whisper, ’d’you love
the breeze that wantons
the whole earth round
breathing its sweet proposals,
but does not love you?’
— then laugh when your blue
head nods: I do. I do.