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. 
