
Wer, 
ORTH, 

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 
And a staunch old heart has he: 
How closely he twineth, how tight he clings 
To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! 
And slily he traileth along the ground, 
And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
Whole ages have fled, and their works decay’d, 
And nations scatter’d 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 upon the past, 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the ivy’s food at last. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 
C. DICKENS. 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 139 

























