  I N a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fernleaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibres tender, Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it; Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it; But no foot of man e'er came that way, Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main— Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Giant forests shook their stately branches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature reveled in wild mysteries, But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees, Only grew and waved its sweet wild way— No one came to note it day by day. Earth one day put on a frolic mood, Moved the hills and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean, Heaved the rocks, and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay, Covered it and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! Oh, the agony, Oh, life's bitter cost Since that useless little fern was lost! Useless? Dost? There came a thoughtful man Searching Nature's secrets far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o'er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veining, leafage, fibres, clear and fine, And the fern's life lay in every line. So, methinks, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us some sweet day. —Anon. |
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