Yew-Trees

There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale,Which to this day stands single, in the midstOf its own darkness, as it stood of yore,Not loth to furnish weapons for the BandsOf Umfraville or Percy ere they marchedTo Scotland's Heaths; or Those that crossed the SeaAnd drew their sounding bows at Azincour,Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.Of vast circumference and gloom profoundThis solitary Tree!—a living thingProduced too slowly ever to decay;Of form and aspect too magnificentTo be destroyed. But worthier still of noteAre those fraternal Four of Borrowdale,Joined in one solemn and capacious grove;Huge trunks!—and each particular trunk a growthOf intertwisted fibres serpentineUp-coiling, and inveterately convolved,—Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looksThat threaten the prophane;—a pillared shade,Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue,By sheddings from the pining umbrage tingedPerennially—beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose, deckedWith unrejoicing berries, ghostly ShapesMay meet at noontide—Fear and trembling Hope,Silence and Foresight—Death the SkeletonAnd Time the Shadow,—there to celebrate,As in a natural temple scattered o'erWith altars undisturbed of mossy stone,United worship; or in mute reposeTo lie, and listen to the mountain floodMurmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.