In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 2

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.