When twilight's spectral fingers fold
Sweet blossoms of each 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 tales;
Then from the cloud from which they fell
Their haunting scent exhales.