In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the sto

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.