II.
         
        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.