That creepeth o’er the ruins old;
Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lonely and cold.
The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay’d
To please his dainty whim;
And the mouldering dust that years have made,
Is a merry meal for him.
Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,