The ivy o'er the mouldering wall 
Spreads like a tree, the growth of years: 
The wild wind through the doorless hall 
A melancholy music rears, 
A solitary voice, that sighs 
O'er man's forgotten pageantries. 
Above the central gate, the clock, 
Through clustering ivy dimly seen, 
Seems, like the ghost of Time, to mock 
The wrecks of power that once has been. 
The hands are rusted on its face; 
Even where they ceased, in years gone by, 
To keep the flying moments pace; 
Fixing, in Fancy's thoughtful eye, 
A point of ages passed away, 
A speck of time, that owns no tie 
With aught that lives and breathes to-day. 
But 'mid the rank and towering grass, 
Where breezes wave, in mournful sport, 
The weeds that choke the ruined court, 
The careless hours that circling pass, 
Still trace upon the dialled brass 
The shade of their unvarying way: 
And evermore, with every ray 
That breaks the clouds and gilds the air, 
Time's stealthy steps are imaged there: 
Even as the long-revolving years 
In self-reflecting circles flow, 
From the first bud the hedge-row bears, 
To wintry Nature's robe of snow. 
The changeful forms of mortal things 
Decay and pass; and art and power 
Oppose in vain the doom that flings 
Oblivion on their closing hour: 
While still, to every woodland vale, 
New blooms, new fruits, the seasons bring, 
For other eyes and lips to hail 
With looks and sounds of welcoming: 
As where some stream light-eddying roves 
By sunny meads and shadowy groves, 
Wave following wave departs for ever, 
But still flows on the eternal river.