---

Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2
Work rating: Low

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.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.