90 



THE PLANT WORLD. 



Against which the branchlets like tracery spread. 



But our minds need not dwell on such fancies alone, 



When around us in wildest profusion are strewn 



The treasures of nature, more wondrously wrought 



Than those that 'neath Ormus' dark waters are sought; 



More marvellous beauty lies hidden in them 



Than men toil to unprison from India's rough gem. 



Their cost is the seeking, a glance of the eye 



On the shadowy sides of the tree trunks close by, 



Which dial each sunshiny hour on the ground; 



And where point the shadows, there too, are they found; 



On yonder gray rocks, on all things that decay, 



The mosses and lichens their beauties display. 



And the fungi, so queer and fantastic, are seen 



In every shape, of all colors but green. 



Here, springing from stumps old and rotten, are shelves. 



Brown, scarlet, or white, as if built by the elves; 



There cushions and stools are strewn over the ground. 



And puff-balls and earth-stars are scattered around. 



Some like nests filled with eggs, or like vases appear. 



And others like corals or antlers of deer, 



Fallen branches and leaves it delights them to deck 



With curious patterns, perhaps a mere speck, 



Or broad-spreading wart of the cankerous Sphcsria, 



Or a velvety carpet unrolled by the Steria — 



Most delicate lace-work — or Irpex's frill, 



To imitate which would defy human skill. 



The recluses of nature, they love best to dwell 



In the dark and damp woods, like the monk in his cell. 



The mosses and lichens, too, love the damp shade, 



And the wet, frosty season, when other plants fade. 



All shrivelled and crisp through the summer they lie, 



As if dead, while the gay, floral train passes by; 



But when touched by the autumn's white crystalline dew 



Which blights their proud rivals, again they renew 



Their mysterious growth, which so little men heed. 



And again, in a way of their own, bloom and seed. 



What tree or what herb, be it ever so fair. 



Can in exquisite grace with the mosses compare? 



The feathery Hypmims rich tapestries spread 



And many-hued mats, soft as down to the tread. 



Wide o'er cold bogs spreads the pallid peat moss; 



Fontmalis' green tresses the mountain-streams toss ; 



