AH, from the niggard tree of Time <br />How quickly fall the hours! <br />It needs no touch of wind or rime <br />To loose such facile flowers. <br /> <br />Drift of the dead year's harvesting, <br />They clog to-morrow's way, <br />Yet serve to shelter growths of Spring <br />Beneath their warm decay. <br /> <br />Or, blent by pious hands with rare <br />Sweet savors of content, <br />Surprise the soul's December air <br />With June's forgotten scent.<br /><br />Edith Wharton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/uses/
