FLOWERS BY THE FOETS. 
M O S'S. 
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 jthrough humid soil ? 
Or when you wrap, m woodland glooms, 
The great prone pme-trunks, rotted rod ? 
Or when you dim, on sombre tombs, 
The “ requiescats ” of the dead ? 
Or is it when your lot is cast 
[n 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 hi fragrant foam, 
And children laugh,—and you can hear 
The ^eatings of the heart of home. 
Edgar Fawcett 
33 
