260 THE SHAKESPEARE GARDEN 



The wall must be crumbled, the stone decay'd 



To pleasure 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 ! 



First, he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 



And a staunch old heart has he ; 

 How closely he turneth, how close 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 men's graves. 



Creeping where grim Death hath been, 

 A rare old plant is the Ivy green ! 



Whole ages have fled and their works decayed, 



And nations have scattered been ; 

 But the stout old ivy shall never fade 



From its hale and hearty green. 

 The brave old plant in its lonely days 



Shall fatten on the past, 

 For the stateliest building man can raise 



Is the ivy's food at last. 



Creeping on where Time has been 

 A rare old plant is the Ivy green ! 



