Yew-Trees / William Wordsworth

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,

Which to this day stands single, in the midst

Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:

Not loathe to furnish weapons for the Bands

Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched

To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea

And drew their sounding bows at Azincour,

Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.

Of vast circumference and gloom profound

This solitary Tree! -a living thing

Produced too slowly ever to decay;

Of form and aspect too magnificent

To be destroyed. But worthier still of note

Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,

Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;

Huge trunks! -and each particular trunk a growth

Of intertwisted fibres serpentine

Up-coiling, and inveteratley convolved, - 

Nor uninformed with Fantasy, and looks

That threaten the profane; -a pillared shade,

Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,

By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged

Perennially -beneath whose sable roof

Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked

With unrejoicing berries -ghostly Shapes

May meet at noontide: Fear and trembling Hope,

Silence and Foresight, Death the Skeleton

And Time the Shadow; there to celebrate,

As in a natural temple scattered o'er

With altars undisturbed of mossy stone,

United worship; or in mute repose

To lie, and listen to the mountain flood

Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.