What do harebells see
Out in the brown moor grass?
Every sort of secret
Dappled leaf and shining wing,
Daisies like snow-mountain crests,
Little pools and hidden nests,
Bird shadows fleet that pass.
What do harebells hear
Through all the days?
Rustle of grass and tinkle of dew,
Grasshoppers fiddling the long noon through,
Clappings of little green leaf-hands,
And the tread of ants in sober bands;
The boom of the sea grown faint and small,
Drowned by a cricket's lone, gay call,
And the bees' dull drone of praise.
What do harebells feel
As hour by hour they grow?
Rocking of winds and sting of rain,
Sun-fingers reaching warm again,
The velvet kiss of a butterfly,
And a thousand things that you and I
Will never even know.