The leafless poplars, straight and tall,
Stand by the gray-green garden wall,
From which such rare fruit used to fall.
In the verandah, where of old
Sweet August spent the roses' gold,
Round the chill pillars, shivering, fold
Garlands of rose-thorns, sharp with cold.
And we, by cosy fireside, muse
On what the Fates grant, what refuse;
And what we waste and what we use.