And a staunch old head hath he;
How closely he twineth—how tightly he clings
To his friend, the huge oak tree!
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,
As he joyously hugs, and crawleth round
The rich mould of dead men’s graves.
Creeping where grim death hath been,
A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and works decay’d,