Portions of this yew

Is a man my grandsire knew

Bosomed here at its foot:

This branch may be his wife

A ruddy human life

Now turned to a green shoot

These grasses must be made

Of her who often prayed

Last century, for repose;

And the fair girl long ago

Whom I often tried to know

May be entering this rose

So, they are not underground

But as nerves and veins abound

In the growths of upper air

And they feel the sun and rain

And the energy again

That made them what they were!