FRENZIED hands at the coffin-lid Under the yew-tree deeply hid: (Will never the sexton come to hark To the tearing sign and the oaken bark!) Is God in Heaven or down in Hell That He cannot pull at the passing-bell? (Is the sexton drunk or fast asleep That he cannot see the new turf creep?) Rend, wood, rend; rip, nails, rip— You hold too fast in your iron grip: (Will only the dead awake in the gloom To mock at the moan of his sounding tomb?) Faster, louder, tooth and claw, Battering hands and champing jaw: (Is the parson dead in the parsonage That he cannot hear the yew-tree rage?) Fitful breathing—muffled, thick, Curses, prayers that follow quick— (God—send someone down the street To hear the drums of the churchyard beat!) @3Palsied hands at the coffin-lid Under the yew-tree deeply hid—@1 (@3What does it matter—now he's dead That he died in his grave instead of his bed?@1) | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEAD LEAVES by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DESTINY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON YOUTH'S PROGENY by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WORDS INTO WORDS WON'T GO by CLARENCE MAJOR WINTER GARDEN THEATRE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |