Evening Dew
When twilight's spectral fingers fold
Sweet blossoms of every hue;
Some half opened bud will hold
Its pearls of evening dew.
Touched with every sunshine hour
The eternal earth has shown
All the perfume of the flower
Till it finally becomes its own.
We that wait may never find
A chance to sing our praise;
For memories we seek to bind
Take the scent of fading days.
The poet who has never spent
His words in futile strain;
For him the misty dewdrops lent
Their diamonds to the rain.
Unfastened in their fragrant bell
They tell their own dear tale;
Then from the cloud from which they fell
Their haunting scents exhale.
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