FLOWERS BY THE POETS. 
MOSS. 
Strange tapestry, by Nature spun 
On viewless looms, aloof from sun, 
And spread through lonely nooks and grots 
Where shadows reign, and leafy rest,— 
O moss, of all your dwelling-spots, 
In which one are you lovelist ? 
Is it when near grim roots that coil 
Their snaky black through humid soil ? 
Or when you wrap, in woodland glooms, 
The great prone pine-trunks, rotted red ? 
Or when you dim, on sombre tombs, 
The “ requiescats ” of the dead ? 
Or is it when your lot is cast 
In some quaint garden of the past, 
On some gray, crumbled basin’s brim, 
With conchs that mildewed Tritons blow, 
While yonder, through the poplars prim, 
Looms up the turreted chateau ? 
Nay, loveliest are you when time weaves 
Your emerald films on low, dark eaves, 
Above where pink porch' roses peer, 
And woodbines break iu fragrant foam, 
And children laugh,—and you can hear 
The beatings of the heart of home. 
Edgar Fawcett. 
