A friend of mine told me about these beautiful carpeted forests of bluebells in Ireland, a favorite place of hers to visit. The pictures are amazing, such as the one I have attached here, but the story behind them inspiring the romantic poets of the 19th century, is equally as cool. Gerard Manley Hopkins, a European poet, made this entry in his journal dated May 9, 1871:
"In the little wood opposite the light they stood in blackish spreads or sheddings like spots on a snake. The heads are then like thongs and solemn in grain and grape-colour. But in the clough through the light they come in falls of sky-colour washing the brows and slacks of the ground with vein-blue, thickening at the double, vertical themselves and the young grass and brake-fern combed vertical, but the brake struck the upright of all this with winged transomes. It was a lovely sight. - The bluebells in your hand baffle you with their inscape, made to every sense. If you draw your fingers through them they are lodged and struggle with a shock of wet heads; the long stalks rub and click and flatten to a fan on one another like your fingers themselves would when you passed the palms hard across one another, making a brittle rub and jostle like the noise of a hurdle strained by leaning against; then there is the faint honey smell and in the mouth the sweet gum when you bite them."