  TAKE this small slip of sombre yew And lay it on thy breast; There, underneath thy downcast eyes, Let the sad emblem rest— Thy tears may fall upon it. I pulled it from a little tree That just begins to grow— Once only has it seen the sun And only once the snow— Thy tears may rain upon it. The garden where it grew is sad Before all other places, Death’s shadow up and down its walks Forever darkly paces— Thy tears have fallen in it. These yew trees stand, a pallid ring Upon the sunlit lawn— He planted them the very year That we were left to mourn— Our tears fell freely for it. They stood like mourners round a grave Who look within, to see Where lie the ashes, while the fire Spires upward, clear and free. |
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