The trees are bare, but cloaked with ivy,
And ivy is green - as green as God.
Ireland is a moss, a vine, a weed,
Forever bent on swallowing herself.
She creeps up over centuries; when cropped,
She sulks a little, and she creeps again.
Look closely at those hedges; are they not
Stone walls made hedgelike by a verdant fist?
Violently fertile, this country blooms
Even in winter, when blooms are cold.
Her vines are as tight as the wool on the loom,
And even her weeds are lovely and old.
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