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.