Bluebell Woods

In England's ancient bluebell woods, in Spring,
when eve'ning sunlight glimmers through the leaves,
a quiet soul might see a wondrous thing
and wonder at the magic beauty weaves.
While Blackbirds sing amidst the drowsing trees
and hoverflies dance lightly round the flowers
swift-stepping lightly as a passing breeze
the Unicorns appear for a few hours.
And there, in those most sacred floral vales,
they feed on bluebell flowers till they're drunk
and dance and pirouette their horns and tails
until the setting sun is all but sunk,
and then, when its last rays are tinted blue,
they turn and bow, and quickly fade from view.

**Bluebell Woods**
In England's ancient bluebell woods, in Spring, when eve'ning sunlight glimmers through the leaves, a quiet soul might see a wondrous thing and wonder at the magic beauty weaves. While Blackbirds sing amidst the drowsing trees and hoverflies dance lightly round the flowers swift-stepping lightly as a passing breeze the Unicorns appear for a few hours. And there, in those most sacred floral vales, they feed on bluebell flowers till they're drunk and dance and pirouette their horns and tails until the setting sun is all but sunk, and then, when its last rays are tinted blue, they turn and bow, and quickly fade from view.

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