The Ivy Green

Goodness, a modest plant is the Ivy green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right decision food are his feasts, I ween,

In his cell so solitary and cold.

The wall should be disintegrated, the stone rotted,

To delight his modest impulse:

Also, the decaying dust that years have made

Is a happy dinner for him.

Crawling where no life is seen,

An intriguing old plant is the Ivy green.

Quick he stealeth on, however he wears no wings,

What's more, a resolute old heart has he.

How intently he twineth, how tight he sticks,

To his companion the gigantic Oak Tree!

Furthermore, slily he traileth along the ground,

What's more, his leaves he tenderly waves,

As he euphorically embraces and crawleth round

The rich shape of dead men's graves.

Crawling where inauspicious demise has been,

An intriguing old plant is the Ivy green.

Entire ages have escaped and their works rotted,

Furthermore, countries have dispersed been;

In any case, the strong old Ivy won't ever blur,

From its robust and good green.

The fearless old plant, in its desolate days,

Will stuff upon the past:

For the stateliest structure man can raise,

Is the Ivy's food finally.

Crawling on, where time has been,

An interesting old plant is the Ivy green.