WHEN evening's shadowy fingers fold br The flowers of every hue, br Some shy, half-opened bud will hold br Its drop of morning's dew. br br Sweeter with every sunlit hour br The trembling sphere has grown, br Till all the fragrance of the flower br Becomes at last its own. br br We that have sung perchance may find br Our little meed of praise, br And round our pallid temples bind br The wreath of fading bays. br br Ah, Poet, who hast never spent br Thy breath in idle strains, br For thee the dewdrop morning lent br Still in thy heart remains; br br Unwasted, in its perfumed cell br It waits the evening gale; br Then to the azure whence it fell br Its lingering sweets exhale.