How closely he twineth, how tight he clings
To his friend, the huge Oak-tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs and crawleth around
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been,