TO THE POETS WHO ONLY

WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold

The flowers of every hue,

Some shy, half-opened bud will hold

Its drop of morning's dew.

Sweeter with every sunlit hour

The trembling sphere has grown,

Till all the fragrance of the flower

Becomes at last its own.

We that have sung perchance may find

Our little meed of praise,

And round our pallid temples bind

The wreath of fading bays.

Ah, Poet, who hast never spent

Thy breath in idle strains,

For thee the dewdrop morning lent

Still in thy heart remains;

Unwasted, in its perfumed cell

It waits the evening gale;

Then to the azure whence it fell

Its lingering sweets exhale.