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.