When the last laden bee has homeward flown,
And daisies close their curtains on the night,
When only hearts that wake for love's delight
And eyes that seek to shed their tears unknown
Are sleepless,—then are strange, wan blossoms blown,
Children of darkness, so not richly dight
Though sweet perchance to other sense than sight
As they distil their secrets all alone.

And such methought were these sad-coloured rhymes;
They seemed some potent perfume to exhale
While cheating night with their melodious chimes;
And so at dawn I gathered them, to pale
Yet more by day, and with the altered times
In fragrance as all else perchance to fail.