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.<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-poets-who-only-read-and-listen/
