Explore "Transformations" by Thomas Hardy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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!