PORTION 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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER THE PAPAGO by JAMES GALVIN THE UNCERTAINTY PRINCIPLE by JAMES GALVIN GHOSTS OF THE OLD YEAR by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON THE REWARD by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON FRANCIS II, KING OF NAPLES; SONNET by AMY LOWELL SUGGESTED BY THE COVER OF A VOLUME OF KEATS'S POEMS by AMY LOWELL JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: REV. LEMUEL WILEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |