Classic Poem

See the holly on the hill.
Aye. That holm-tree on the height,
Where the heather, bed by bed,
Shines in bloom of pinky red,
And the daisied strips of turf
Wind among it, green and red,
And hard by
Sings the risen lark on high.

Thro' its leaves you see the light.
Aye. The sky behind its head;
And the thrums of ivy wind
Stout and close around its rind,
And the fox-glove hangs its bells
O'er the leafy ferns' green bed,
In his shade
Stirring softly on the glade.

He, though mateless of its kind,
By the ivy has been found,
And it hangs its slender length
On his stoutly-holding strength;
Shining round his shining head
Whereinto its stems are wound,
Till we see
Holm and ivy as one tree.

And the holly leaves are rough,
And they so betoken me;
And the ivy likens you
As the softer of the two.
And may you, my ivy, cleave
Unto me your trusty tree,
Low or tall
I with you will stand or fall.