To the Poets Who Only Read and Listen

When evening's shadowy fingers fold The flowers of every hue, Some shy, half-opened bud will holds 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.