"It is sad that so many of worth,
    Still in the flesh," soughed the yew,
 "Misjudge their lot whom kindly earth
       Secludes from view.

    "They ride their diurnal round
    Each day-span's sum of hours
 In peerless ease, without jolt or bound
       Or ache like ours.

    "If the living could but hear
    What is heard by my roots as they creep
 Round the restful flock, and the things said there, 
       No one would weep."

    "Now set among the wise,"
    They say: "Enlarged in scope,
 That no God trumpet us to rise
       We truly hope."

    I listened to his strange tale
    In the mood that stillness brings,
 And I grew to accept as the day wore pale
       That view of things.