Woodland spring flower

Usage examples of bluebell.

The thick moss and ferns, the bluebells and the bloodroots with their starry white blooms, the interlaced boughs, and the gentle gurgle of the water running over the smooth stones made a more lovely dining chamber, Ista thought, than she had sat in for many a year.

So rode they down the Side, through deep peaceful meadows fair with white ox-eye daisies, bluebells and yellow goatsbeard and sea campion, deep-blue gentians, agrimony and wild marjoram, and pink clover and bindweed and great yellow buttercups feasting on the sun.

There was always something to be picked at different times of the year, cowslips not butter cups or daisies, they were too common catkins, wood anemones, ferns, bluebells and may, beautiful scented white may.

Like aqualungs of death they were, those canisters, if you were a Bee Orchid or a Bluebell.

Becky and Bruce were at the other end of the little wood with Muffin, she could hear their happy voices, and just for the moment she wished with all her heart that she could call a halt to time and stay there in the sunshine with the bluebells all around her and the thin evening light dappling the trees.

Scotland with its rolling hills and deep valleys carpeted in bluebells and hawthorne.

Dusting off her bands, she looked through the window in the side of the tree house and breathed in the splendor of the valley and hills, decked out in bright hawthorn, cherry, and bluebells, then she turned back to inspect the little room.

The ground there was covered with a mist of bluebells, and nearly a score of crab-apple trees were in full bloom.

He lay there a long time, watching the sunlight wheel till the crab-trees threw shadows over the bluebells, his only companions a few wild bees.

There had been the most delightful lot of bluebells, and-- he knew where some still lingered like little patches of sky fallen irk between the trees, away out of the sun.

White hawthorn weighted the hedges, and creamy primroses and bluebells flourished beneath the trees.

Now I picked the creamy primroses and the nodding bluebells, bright celandine and hidden violets and forget-me-nots like pieces of fallen sky, for no other reason than that they were beautiful.

They were like lovers who, rambling in a shy wood, never dare stay their babbling talk of the trees and birds and lost bluebells, lest in the deep waters of a kiss their star of all that is to come should fall and be drowned.

I was telling her quietly in my rusty Spanish about the bluebells I used to look for in the Yorkshire woods.

Her eyes were sunlit, the colour of bluebells, and still shadowed very faintly with fatigue.