Wordsworth was familiar with these ferns, for he writes:
Often, trifling with a privilege
Alike indulged to all, we paused, one now,
And now the other, to point out, perchance
To pluck some flower or water weed, too fair,
Either to be divided from the place
On which it grew, or to be left alone
To its own beauty. Many such there are,
Fair ferns and flowers and chiefly that tall fern,
So stately, of the Queen Osmunda named:
Plant lovelier, in its own retired abode
On Grasmere's beach, than Naiad by the side
Of Grecian brook or Lady of the Mere,
Sole sitting by the shores of old romance.
The mngled beauty and majesty of the landscape near Deerfield
was so simple, yet so charming, that thoughts of serious
questions were out of the question. The sky was partly overcast
with clouds offering lovely breadths of light and shade. Every
ledge of rocks along the brown, foaming water of the Deerfield
river was draped with weld clematis, ferns, vines, and moss. As
the stream dashed along at our left it broke the rich mass of
verdure with its silvery gleam.
By the side of the road a woman was selling honey made from
mountain flowers. We bought several pounds and found it most
excellent. The comb was so thin that it seemed to melt in one's
mouth, and the flavor had in it a "subtle deliciousness" clearly
indicating its source.
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