blue-bells

Yes, blue-bells and wind-flowers to me and to all who love them.

Long Ago When I Was Young Theodora Goss 2008

Yes, blue-bells and wind-flowers to me and to all who love them.

Archive 2008-07-01 Theodora Goss 2008

My book of memory lies open always at the page where there are the pictures of Kentish cherry orchards, field and farm and gold-dim woodlands starred with primroses, light copses where the blue-bells and wind-flowers grow.

Long Ago When I Was Young Theodora Goss 2008

My book of memory lies open always at the page where there are the pictures of Kentish cherry orchards, field and farm and gold-dim woodlands starred with primroses, light copses where the blue-bells and wind-flowers grow.

Archive 2008-07-01 Theodora Goss 2008

I had walked out with it four or five miles across a patch of moorland and down to a secluded little coppice full of blue-bells, halfway along the high-road between Leet and

In the Days of the Comet Herbert George 2006

That home lies amid a sequestered and rather hilly region, thirty miles removed from X — —; a region whose verdure the smoke of mills has not yet sullied, whose waters still run pure, whose swells of moorland preserve in some ferny glens that lie between them the very primal wildness of nature, her moss, her bracken, her blue-bells, her scents of reed and heather, her free and fresh breezes.

The Professor, by Charlotte Bronte 2006

Here you saw the sweet azure of blue-bells, and recognised in pearl-white blossoms, spangling the grass, an humble type of some star-lit spot in space.

Shirley, by Charlotte Bronte 2004

Jacques walked on a few minutes or two in silence, cutting off the heads of the blue-bells with his little cane.

La Vend�e 2004

One morning -- it was a day in the summer of 1746; the heather was bursting into bloom, shadows of great fleecy clouds trailed sleepily over the quiet hillsides, larks sang high in the heavens, blue-bells swung their heads lazily in the gentle breeze, and all things spoke of peace -- there came the tramp of horses down the glen, past the rocks where the rowan-trees grew, and so up to the cottage door.

Stories of the Border Marches Jeanie Lang

One sees in imagination the solemn, round-shouldered hills standing out grim in the thin spring sunshine, their black sides slashed and lined with snow; later, one pictures these hills decked with heartsease and blue-bells a-swing in the summer breeze, or rich with the purple bloom of heather; and, again, one imagines them clothed in November mists, or white and ghost-like, shrouded in swirling clouds of snow.

Stories of the Border Marches Jeanie Lang