Thomas Hardy - "Transformations"

Portion of this yew
Is a man my grandsire knew,
Bosomed here at this 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"!

[I LOVE this poem!! Had to share it with you...]