Artemis to Actæon (1909)/Uses

by Edith Wharton

 

USES

Ah, from the niggard tree of TimeHow quickly fall the hours!It needs no touch of wind or rimeTo loose such facile flowers.

Drift of the dead year's harvesting,They clog to-morrow's way,Yet serve to shelter growths of springBeneath their warm decay,

Or, blent by pious hands with rareSweet savours of content,Surprise the soul's December airWith June's forgotten scent.