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. 
