by: Edgar Fawcett (1847-1904)
- HEN 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, fiexuous 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!
POEMS BY EDGAR FAWCETT
"Maidenhair" is reprinted
from The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 45, issue 272 (June 1880).