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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
,
As
he
joyously
hugs
and
crawleth
round
The
rich
mould
of
dead
men
’
s
graves
.
Creeping
where
grim
death
has
been
,
A
rare
old
plant
is
the
Ivy
green
.
Whole
ages
have
fled
and
their
works
decayed
,
And
nations
have
scattered
been
;
