Uses

by Edith Wharton

　　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 savours of content,

　　Surprise the soul's December air

　　With June's forgotten scent.