Uses

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 savours of content,
Surprise the soul’s December air
With June’s forgotten scent.

Next 10 Poems

• Edith Wharton : Vesalius In Zante
• Phillis Wheatley : A Farewel To America
• Phillis Wheatley : A Farewel To America To Mrs. S. W.
• Phillis Wheatley : A Funeral Poem On The Death Of C. E. An Infant Of Twelve Months
• Phillis Wheatley : A Rebus, By I. B.
• Phillis Wheatley : An Answer To The Rebus, By The Author Of These Poems
• Phillis Wheatley : An Hymn To Humanity ( To S.p.g. Esp )
• Phillis Wheatley : An Hymn To The Evening
• Phillis Wheatley : An Hymn To The Morning
• Phillis Wheatley : Goliath Of Gath

Previous 10 Poems

• Edith Wharton : The Tomb Of Ilaria Giunigi
• Edith Wharton : The One Grief
• Edith Wharton : The Old Pole Star
• Edith Wharton : The Mortal Lease
• Edith Wharton : The Eumenides
• Edith Wharton : Survival
• Edith Wharton : Orpheus
• Edith Wharton : Non Dolet!
• Edith Wharton : Moonrise Over Tyringham
• Edith Wharton : Mona Lisa