No words tliat 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 olBces 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. Fenner. 

 72 



