Here you will find thePoemUsesof poet Edith Wharton
AH, from the niggard tree of Time How quickly fall the hours! It needs no touch of wind or rime To loose such facile flowers. Drift of the dead year's harvesting, They clog to-morrow's way, Yet serve to shelter growths of Spring Beneath their warm decay. Or, blent by pious hands with rare Sweet savors of content, Surprise the soul's December air With June's forgotten scent.
