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. 

Added: Mar 11 2005 | Viewed: 490 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Alfred Lord Tennyson
Poem: In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the sto

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