Old Yew, which graspest at the stones <br /> That name the under-lying dead, <br /> Thy fibres net the dreamless head, <br /> Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. <br /> The seasons bring the flower again, <br /> And bring the firstling to the flock; <br /> And in the dusk of thee, the clock <br /> Beats out the little lives of men. <br /> O not for thee the glow, the bloom, <br /> Who changest not in any gale, <br /> Nor branding summer suns avail <br /> To touch thy thousand years of gloom: <br /> <br /> And gazing on thee, sullen tree, <br /> Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, <br /> I seem to fail from out my blood <br /> And grow incorporate into thee.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-2-old-yew-which-graspest-at-th/
