“If you would see the lady fern 
In all her graceful power, 
Go look for her where woodlarks learn 
Love-songs in a summer bower, 
Go look for the pimpernel by day, 
For Silene’s flowers by night, 
For the first loves to bask in the sunny ray, 
And the last wooes the moon’s soft light ; 
But day or night the lady fern 
May catch and charm your eye, 
When the sun to gold her emeralds turn 
Or the moon lends her silvery dye. 
But seek her not in early May 
For a Sibyl, then, she looks, 
With wrinkled fronds that seem to say, 
‘Shut up are my wizard books.’ 
Then search for her in the summer woods 
Where rills keep moist the ground, 
Where foxgloves from their spotted hoods 
Shake pilfering insects round ; 
Fair are the tufts of meadowsweet 
That haply blossom nigh, 
Fair are the whorls of violet 
Prunella shows hard by; 
But not by burn, in wood or dale, 
Grows anything so fair 
As the plumy crests of emerald pale 
Of the lady fern, when the sunbeams turn 
To gold her delicate hair.’—-CAMPBELL, 
