Across the mountain's crest of stone 

 Behold ! an emerald garland thrown 

 In many a fold, as soft and fair 

 As day-cloud idly lingering there ; 

 And now it ripples in the breeze 

 That scarcely stirs the forest trees ; 

 And now it shimmers in the light 

 In hues of brown or silvery white. 

 'Twould seem a vandal act to tread 

 Where such a dainty fabric's spread. 

 But drawing nearer, we discern 

 Naught save the banners of the fern ; 

 The Woodsia fern that scorns to dwell 

 By shaded cliff, in shadowy dell, 

 But on the gray ridge rooted fast, 

 Fears neither sun nor tempest's blast ; 

 And is, like pillared saint of old, 

 In summer's heat, in winter's cold, 

 Content above the world to brood 

 In silence and in solitude. 



