Henry Nicholson Ellacombe, The plant-lore & garden-craft of Shakespeare
“ No words that I know of will say what these Mosses are; none are delicate enough, none perfect enough, none rich enough. . . . . They will not be gathered like the flowers for chaplet or love token; but of these the wild bird will make its nest and the wearied child its pillow, and as the earth's first mercy so they are its last gift to us. When all other service is vain from plant and tree, the soft Mosses and grey Lichens take up their watch by the headstone. The woods, the blossoms, the gift-bearing Grasses have done their parts for a time, but these do service for ever. ”
