The Yewberry

The red yewberry in the tangled copse

Its nature, like a leper shows

Whose clapper gone is dangerous, whose steps

Like nightmare clatter through repose.

Death-flavored herb, and like him colored; hard

To handle, with a taste absurd,

A mythic berry in a true church yard

And easy pickings for a crazy bird.

Perhaps the raven's fruit. The seed

Against its glancing leaves seems cold.

Fingers praised for their devotion bleed

Beneath their aegis, twist and mold.

False garland in the hedgerow gleams; it winds

Itself, unnatural and low

To crown a forehead stiffly; or it binds

A sanguine laurel to a mortal blow.

Dishonor comments, and the victim swells;

His wreath is vigorous, its color sound

As the tough berry whose imposture tells

The measure truly of his shrinking ground.