To the Ferns

O fragrant ferns, modest and shy,
You fold your leaves, and your bounty dry,
Too sweet for the breeze, too pure for the eye,
Or the heart of the fickle earth to apply.

In the glade where the wild things weave,
You spire to reach the heavens, reprieve,
Your grace in the silence, you none deceive,
In the twilight’s whisper where dreams believe.

• G L D Mackay