Ivy

One part sweet
and three parts sour,
the seeds I sewed grow by the hour.
Discreet and neat, they’ll rise to meet,
to greet and flower at my feet.
But now the cold will take a hold,
and tender leaves begin to fold.
They need the sun, they need the rain,
else all their songs were sung in vain
and thrown to winds that howl with power;
bold the bane that scaled the tower
whose bell that rung in the midnight hour
was one part sweet
and three parts sour.