Dicksonia groweth in thickets deep, 



Where the grouse and the rabbit hide ; 



But she loveth best the boulder rock 

 On the desolate mountain side. 



And there, though shaken by wind and storm, 



The glint of her fronds is seen, 

 As she wreathes about the lichened stone 



A circle of delicate green. 



Fitted by Nature's loving hand 



To dwell in the fairest bowers, 

 She has grace and beauty in every line 



And the fragrance of the flowers. 



But oh, she loveth the free wilds best 

 And the cold, gray boulder's side 



And there, adorning the rugged steeps, 

 Forever she will abide. 



