In the shadowed hush of the forest deep,
Where whispers of ancient secrets sleep,
The ferns unfurl their emerald lace,
Dancing softly in twilight’s grace.

Tree Fern Forest, Gloucester Tops, NSW

Their fronds, like fingers, trace the air,
Touched by magic, spun with care—
For ferns, in myth, are more than they seem,
A bridge between waking and dream.

In Celtic lore, they hide the light,
Gleaming bright through the longest night;
A faerie’s gift, a faerie’s sign,
To find a treasure, pure and fine.
They say, on Midsummer’s eve,
A fern will bloom, if you believe.

In Norse tales, the fern’s heart is pure,
A symbol of strength, both wild and sure.
From deep in the roots of Yggdrasil’s tree,
Ferns whisper to those who truly see,
A promise of rebirth, new and bright—
A silent guardian of the night.

In the mountains where the Zulu roam,
The fern is a guide, a path to home,
Where spirits speak in rustling leaves,
And those who listen find reprieve.
Its spiral fronds, so curiously bent,
Conceal the wisdom of the ancients spent.

The Greeks saw it as a plant of grace,
A symbol of hope in a forgotten place,
Where Demeter’s daughters dance unseen,
Beneath the green, where ferns are queen.
Their light is soft, their power pure,
A quiet strength that will endure.

A fern is not just plant or leaf—
It carries stories, quiet and brief.
It speaks of faeries, of realms unknown,
Of magic hidden, yet fully grown.
Its root is deep, its reach is wide,
In every fern, a secret hides.

So when you walk through forest’s veil,
And hear the wind in branches sail,
Look to the ferns, those tender things—
For in their hearts, the faerie sings.

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