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Of
right
choice
food
are
his
meals
,
I
ween
,
In
his
cell
so
lone
and
cold
.
The
wall
must
be
crumbled
,
the
stone
decayed
,
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
.
Fast
he
stealeth
on
,
though
he
wears
no
wings
,
And
a
staunch
old
heart
has
he
.
