| 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, | 5 |
| 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, | 10 |
| 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 | 15 |
| And grow incorporate into thee. | |