" URNS of beauty, forms of glory, 

 Shapes with frosted silver hoary ; 

 Fair cups of light that pearls enfold, 

 Set in transparent gauzy gold ; 

 Lucid sprays of emerald dye, 

 Could e'en an empire's treasures vie, 

 With all these jewels that emboss 

 Each separate leaflet of the moss. 

 Voices from the silent sod, 

 Speaking of the perfect God. 



" Fringeless or fringed, and fringed again, 

 No single leaflet formed in vain ; 

 What wealth of heavenly wisdom lies 

 Within one moss-cup's mysteries ! 

 And few may know what silvery net 

 Down in its mimic depths is set, 

 To catch the rarest dews that fall, 

 Upon the dry and barren wall. 

 Voices from the silent sod, 

 Speaking of the perfect God." 



