Bluebell

A’red that drifts among the ways, And low swaying in the green, A bluebell stands alone, it foils, A shimmering trick of light-between.

It lingers where the wood bends deep, Spying other blooms in kiss, or male, Yet still it flights its azure wings, To spin and impress—to yet prevail. The light takes on a ghostly hue, In the hang of petals down the isle And dragonflies awaken in pools While bees chime muffled to the still.

• D H Lawrence