Bluebells Quotes

“I'm afraid they would droop. See, they're drooping already. Bluebells are like that.”
― Winston Graham, Ross Poldark

“Naomi makes a face and points to the potted flowers near the front door of her houseboat. "Just look at that," she says, as if something upsetting has happened.
She reaches into one of the pots and pulls out a green vine, a few feet long, with several bell-shaped flowers. "There," she says with a vindicated look in her eye, as if this vine has wronged her in some way.
"What is it?" I ask.
She flashes a patronizing smile. "An invasive weed," she says, tossing the vine into the lake. I watch the little white flowers flutter in the water. I want to kneel down and rescue them from drowning. "Morning glory," Naomi continues, shaking her head. "It'll take over if you let it."
I watch as the vine drifts away on the lake. The little flowers bob up and down as if gasping for air. I consider that the vine might find its way to shore and wash up on a patch of soil, where it will start a new existence, maybe sink its roots and thrive. Maybe Naomi has set it free.
I think of the bluebells that grew in my mother's garden when I was a child. Weeds, really. But I'd pick them by the handful, and when bunched together they looked stunning.”
― Sarah Jio, Morning Glory

“They reached the summit of a shallow incline and were greeted with a surprising vista of bluebells that blanketed the forest floor. It was like stumbling into a dream, the cerulean haze seeping between the trunks of oak and beech and ash. The smell of bluebells was everywhere, the perfumed air feeling heavy and rich in her lungs.
Pausing by a slender tree trunk, Annabelle curled her arm around it loosely and stared at the stands of bluebells with surprised pleasure. "Lovely," she murmured, her face gleaming in the shadow cast by the canopy of ancient, interlaced branches.
"Yes." But Hunt was looking at her, not the bluebells, and one glance at his expression caused the blood to tingle in her veins.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Secrets of a Summer Night

“In the woods the bluebells seem
Like a blue and magic dream,
Blue water, light and air
Flow among them there.

But the eager girl who pulls
Bluebells up in basketfuls
When she gets them home will find
The magic left behind.”
― Eleanor Farjeon

“As they strode through the meadow, she had the eerie sensation of walking atop waves. Except this was a sea of petals, not saltwater. Her toe caught on a fallen branch, and she stumbled a bit.
"Are you all right?" Colin asked.
She nodded. "I was just distracted. Wondering how much loam is in this soil."
"What?"
He set down his side of the trunk. Minerva did the same.
"You know," she said. "Loam. A mix of clay and sand. In order for he soil to support this many bluebells, it would-"
"You're standing in the middle of this," -he spread his arms wide to indicate Nature's splendor- " and you're thinking about loam in the soil? You spend far too much time staring at the ground."
Rounding the trunk, Colin plucked her off her feet. With gentle strength, he tumbled her into the bluebells. She lay flat on her back, breathless and dizzy from the sudden inversion. From the sudden nearness of him.
He lay down next to her. "There. Have a rest. Look up at the sky for a change."
Minerva stared up from the uneven ground. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears, and a crushed green scent engulfed her senses. The grasses and bluebells towered over her, swaying in the gentle breeze and dripping loveliness. Above everything, the sky hovered brilliantly and blue. Nearly cloudless, save for a few wispy, changing puffs of white that were apparently too proud to mimic rabbits or dragons or sailing ships.”
― Tessa Dare, A Week to be Wicked

“The stone wall was at her back, a door in the wall on her left and bluebells grew on either side of the seat.”
― Ellen Read, Love The Gift

“In our bedroom I chose curtains of bluebells, which was not really a good choice, because since this particular room faced north the sun seldom shone through. The only time they were pretty was when one lay in bed in mid-morning and saw the light shining through them, pulled back on either side of the window, or seen at night, the blue rather faded out. In fact, it was like bluebells in nature. As soon as you bring them into the house they turn grey and dispirited. and refuse to hold up their heads. A bluebell is a flower that refuses to b captured and is only gay when it is in the woods.”
― Agatha Christie, Agatha Christie: An Autobiography