In Memoriam A.H.H.
Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
roots are wrapt about the bones.
seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
out the little lives of men.
not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
touch thy thousand years of gloom:
gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
grow incorporate into thee.
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