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Cemeteries abound with flowers, trees and plantings – all manner of living things with which to remember those who have passed. It is not unusual to come across a grave or two that is covered in ivy. In older cemeteries, especially Victorian and Rural Garden cemeteries, ivy was a perpetual favorite, blanketing many graves, both carved in stone and living plants. It has been said, "Ivy still mourns when others have forgotten the dead."
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The
ivy plant is native to Europe and grows naturally in cemeteries throughout
England. Although a pretty vine,
ivy has a reputation of causing harm to gravestones, brick walls, and
trees.
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As intended by those who originally planted it, ivy lends a shot of color onto the otherwise dark and drab winter
cemetery grounds, and gives us hope for renewal and immorality.
In
1836, Charles Dickens wrote a poem that appeared in his novel Pickwick
Papers about the ivy:
Ivy
Green
Oh,
a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That
creepeth o'er ruins old!
Of
right choice food are his meals, I ween,
In
his cell so lone and cold.
The
wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed,
To
pleasure his dainty whim:
Is
a merry meal for him.
Creeping
where no life is seen,
A
rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Fast
he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And
a staunch old heart has he.
How
closely he twineth, how tight he clings
And
slyly he traileth along the ground,
And
his leaves he gently waves,
As
he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The
rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping
where grim death hath been,
A
rare old plant is the Ivy green.
Whole
ages have fled and their works decayed,
And
nations have scattered been;
But
the stout old Ivy shall never fade,
From
its hale and hearty green.
The
brave old plant, in its lonely days,
Shall
fatten upon the past:
For
the stateliest building man can raise
Is
the Ivy's food at last.
Creeping
on where time has been,
A
rare old plant is the Ivy green.
~
Charles Dickens
~ Joy
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