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