Churchyard, Manton, Rutland.

The Yew-Tree

Should they not sleep, safe in the sepulchre?
I, a man walking, one alive to fear,
Hear these deep, holy boughs and berries red
Sweep the dark graves, then stop where seem to tread
Long-vanished mourners from an earlier year;
Late-leaving, then, from each fresh grave I hear
Love’s nearmost: ‘0, who will lift this lost, loved head,
Crowned with flowers fading, whose quick colors pray?’
Then none makes answer; yet, soon, bodily
Reaching to God, I hear that good thief say:
‘Lord, for no wrong Thou diest, but justly we.’
That word kills grief, and through the dark-boughed tree
Gives to each dead his resurrection day.

— Vernon Watkins