Old yew, which graspest at the stones That name the underlying 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COMING AMERICAN by SAM WALTER FOSS MODERN LOVE: 34 by GEORGE MEREDITH ON RECEIVING [THE FIRST] NEWS OF THE WAR by ISAAC ROSENBERG PAX BRITANNICA by ALFRED AUSTIN DECORATION DAY PRAYER by ARTHUR ROSZELLE BEMIS JR. THE FOREST by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN CAELIA: SONNETS: 3 by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |