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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341667" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the sto</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341667" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Old Yew, which graspest at the stones <br> That name the under-lying dead,<br> Thy fibres net the dreamless head,<br> Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.<br> The seasons bring the flower again,<br> And bring the firstling to the flock;<br> And in the dusk of thee, the clock<br> Beats out the little lives of men.<br> O not for thee the glow, the bloom,<br> Who changest not in any gale,<br> Nor branding summer suns avail<br> To touch thy thousand years of gloom:</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341667" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"> And gazing on thee, sullen tree,<br> Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,<br> I seem to fail from out my blood<br> And grow incorporate into thee.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Alfred+Lord+Tennyson">Alfred Lord Tennyson</a></strong></div>

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