Listen! No; you can not hear them;
Never do they make a sound,
All these thousand sweet blue flowers
Starting up from out the ground.
Scattered are they up the hill-side,
Hidden in the woodland nooks,
Sprinkled over sunny meadows,
Nestled close by sparkling brooks.
Where, I wonder, have they sprung from?
Do they live in worlds below?
Have they slept the livelong winter
Underneath the soft white snow?
Ah! if only they had voices,
What strange stories they might tell
Of the land where winsome fairies
With the flowers love to dwell!
Oh, you dainty wee blue flowers!
Brightest roses June may bring,
But they can not match your sweetness,
Gentle messengers of spring.