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Transformations

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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!

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"Portion of this yew..."

"Transformations" is a quintessential example of Thomas Hardy's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...

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