Classic Poem

The ivy clasps the pine,
And climbs the while it clings;
The tendrils of the vine
Are given in place of wings.

The limpet hugs the rock
The closer for the wave;
And dares the tempest's shock
In feebleness to brave.

The little child holds fast
Its father in alarms;
Or nestles down at last
Within his sheltering arms.

So hangs my soul on Thee,
O Lord, where'er I roam;
Guide, guard, hold, carry me,
And bear me safely home.