The ivy, while climbing, preserves its pointed leaf, but when it has
reached the top of its support it spreads out into a bushy head and
produces only rounded and unshapely leaves.
The ivy, climbing upward on the tower,
In vigorous life its shapely tendrils weaves,
But, resting on the summit, forms a bower,
And sleeps, a tangled mass of shapeless leaves.
So we, while striving, climb the upward way,
And shape by enterprise our inner lives;
But when, on some low rest we idly stay,
Our purpose, losing point no longer strives.