Canto II
Old Yew, which graspest at the stonesThat 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 clockBeats out the little lives of men.
O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,Who changest not in any gale,Nor branding summer suns availTo touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on the sullen tree,Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,I seem to fail from out my bloodAnd grow incorporate into thee.