Uses

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.