There Is A Yew-Tree, Pride Of Lorton Vale, Which To This Day Stands Single, In The Midst Of Its Own Darkness, As It Stood Of Yore: Not Loathe To Furnish Weapons For The Bands Of Umfraville Or Percy Ere They Marched To Scotland'S Heaths; Or Those That Crossed The Sea And Drew Their Sounding Bows At Azincour, Perhaps At Earlier Crecy, Or Poictiers. Of Vast Circumference And Gloom Profound This Solitary Tree! A Living Thing Produced Too Slowly Ever To Decay; Of Form And Aspect Too Magnificent To Be Destroyed. But Worthier Still Of Note Are Those Fraternal Four Of Borrowdale, Joined In One Solemn And Capacious Grove; Huge Trunks! And Each Particular Trunk A Growth Of Intertwisted Fibres Serpentine Up-Coiling, And Inveteratley Convolved, Nor Uninformed With Fantasy, And Looks That Threaten The Profane; -A Pillared Shade, Upon Whose Grassless Floor Of Red-Brown Hue, By Sheddings From The Pining Umbrage Tinged Perennially -Beneath Whose Sable Roof Of Boughs, As If For Festal Purpose Decked With Unrejoicing Berries, Ghostly Shapes May Meet At Noontide: Fear And Trembling Hope, Silence And Foresight, Death The Skeleton And Time The Shadow; There To Celebrate, As In A Natural Temple Scattered O'Er With Altars Undisturbed Of Mossy Stone, United Worship; Or In Mute Repose To Lie, And Listen To The Mountain Flood Murmuring From Glaramara'S Inmost Caves.