Thy fibres net the dreamless head

Charles Cowling

 

 

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;
&; 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.

 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson — In Memoriam

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Jehdeiah
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Jehdeiah

We like Pammy, it’s all gently about me and my death and what I’d like, and less of the lofty grandeur of the grasping, sullen, bloodsucking corporate trees who steal our dreams and crush our hopes for a beautiful and sunny end.
Feeling cynical today so in need of refreshment it’s
Ayres 1 – Tennyson 0
Thanks sweetpea

sweetpea
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sweetpea

Wonderful. 20th century alternative? Pam Ayres! Woodland Burial Don’t lay me in some gloomy churchyard shaded by a wall, Where the dust of ancient bones has spread a dryness over all, Lay me in some leafy loam where, sheltered from the cold, Little seeds investigate, and tender leaves unfold. There, kindly and affectionately plant a native tree, To grow resplendent before God and hold some part of me. The roots will not disturb me as they wend their peaceful way To build the fine and bountiful from closure and decay, To seek their small requirements so that when their work… Read more »