Lord Alfred Tennyson

In Memoriam II: Old Yew, which graspest at the stones

In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII —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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