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.