Analysis of In Memoriam A. H. H.: 2. Old Yew, which graspest at the sto

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.