WHEN deep in some dim glade we pause,
Perchance we mark how winds caress
These lowly sprays of quivering gauze,
Aerial in their slenderness.
The ruffled leaves of vapory green
Fringe mimic branches, fine as thread,
Above slim stems whose ebon sheen
Is always mellowing into red.
Near trees or bushes hardier born,
They group as fragile, where you pass,
As though in shreds a mist of morn
Yet lingered on the balmy grass.
Ah, shadowy ferns, in such frail ways
Your lightsome, flexuous throngs are wrought,
I half am tempted, while I gaze,
To question of my wondering thought
If silvery whispers of the breeze
Have found, as through the woods they went,
In your phantasmal delicacies
Ethereal embodiment!
Edgar Fawcett.