O, A DAINTY plant is the ivy green,
  That creepeth o’er ruins old!
Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,
  In his cell so lone and cold.
The walls must be crumbled, the stones 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...