  T Threading its noiseless way among fair things Love-chosen to make beautiful my room, The ivy spreads its tender living gloom, Darkening and brightening the wall; now clings Closely around some picture, and now swings Some airy shoot of tremulous young bloom Into the freer sunlight; till the doom Of their slow silent fate together brings At last the branches that for long years went Their single, separate ways. Did no swift thrill Of subtle recognition flash, and fill Their veins? Oh Ivy, still must we lament Thou canst not with our joy in thee have part, |
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