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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            II.
       
      Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
          That name the under-lying dead,
          Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
      Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.

      The seasons bring the flower again,
          And bring the firstling to the flock;
          And in the dusk of thee, the clock
      Beats out the little lives of men.

      O not for thee the glow, the bloom,
          Who changest not in any gale,
          Nor branding summer suns avail
      To touch thy thousand years of gloom:

      And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
          Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
          I seem to fail from out my blood
      And grow incorporate into thee.
       


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