No words that I know of will say what these mosses 
are—none are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none 
rich enough. ... The traceries of intricate silver and 
fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, burnished through 
every fiber into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of 
silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed 
for simplest, sweetest offices of grace.—RUSKIN. 
Hearts there are on the sounding shore, 
Something whispers soft to me, 
Restless and roaming forevermore, 
Like this, the weary weed of the sea; 
Bear they yet on each beating breast 
The eternal type of the wondrous whole, 
Grace unfolding amid unrest, 
Grace informing with silent soul. 
C. G. PENNER. 
ro 
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