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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO THE MEMORY OF INEZ MILHOLLAND by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SONG BY THE WINDOW BEFORE BED by KATHERINE MANSFIELD BETRAND AND GOURGAUD TALK OVER OLD TIMES by EDGAR LEE MASTERS A PSALM OF TRAVEL by GEORGE SANTAYANA |