William Wordsworth (1770–1850)

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 loath 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 inveterately 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.