He…

Hid from sight of pasture lands,

Behind the Church a yew-tree stands,

Banished from the cheerful fields,

For the deadly fruit it yields.

Year by year it waxes tall,

Hemmed within the Church-yard wall;

For the Church must ever keep

Poisoned fruit from silly sheep.

Without a knot its branches grow,

Each to form a yeoman’s bow,

Evergreen and never old,

For they spring from churchyard mould.

A solitary from the throng,

I fashioned weapons for the strong:

But every thought within my head

Has its roots among the dead.