Last Updated：2022/12/24
No words, that I know of, will say what these mosses are. None are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. How is one to tell of the rounded bosses of furred and beaming green,—the starred divisions of rubied bloom, fine-filmed, as if the Rock Spirits could spin porphyry as we do glass,—the traceries of intricate silver, and fringes of amber, lustrous, arborescent, 100 burnished through every fibre into fitful brightness and glossy traverses of silken change, yet all subdued and pensive, and framed for simplest, sweetest offices of grace.
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No
words,
that
I
know
of,
will
say
what
these
mosses
are.
None
are
delicate
enough,
none
perfect
enough,
none
rich
enough.
How
is
one
to
tell
of
the
rounded
bosses
of
furred
and
beaming
green,—the
starred
divisions
of
rubied
bloom,
fine-filmed,
as
if
the
Rock
Spirits
could
spin
porphyry
as
we
do
glass,—the
traceries
of
intricate
silver,
and
fringes
of
amber,
lustrous,
arborescent,
100
burnished
through
every
fibre
into
fitful
brightness
and
glossy
traverses
of
silken
change,
yet
all
subdued
and
pensive,
and
framed
for
simplest,
sweetest
offices
of
grace.
