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I read a poem that I found and made some modernizations to. I really liked it, and it seemed to work with the evening:
by Albert Pike (with some modification)
Hear us, lovely Flora, while we sing to thee!
Thou rests now beneath some shady tree,
Near a swift brook, upon a mossy root.
All other winds with deep delight are mute,
While Eurus frolics with thy flowing hair,
A thousand odors floating on the air,
And rippling softly through the dewy green
Of the thick leaves, that murmuringly screen
thy snowy forehead. Struggling through their mass,
the quivering sunlight snows upon the grass
In golden flakes. Round thee a thousand flowers,
Still glittering with the tears of Spring's light showers,
Offer the incense of their glad perfume
To thee, who urges them to bud and bloom,
With thy kind smile and influence divine.
Thine arms around young Zephyr entwine,
And his round thee. With roses garlanded,
On his white shoulder rests thy lovely head;
Thy deep eyes gaze in his,
Radiant with mute, unutterable bliss,
And, happy there,
Oh, lovely, young, enamored pair,
Your rosy lips meet in a long, warm kiss!
The bird her nest with earnest patience weaves,
And sings, delighted, hidden in the leaves;
From their high homes in cavernous old trees,
The busy legions of industrious bees
Drink nectar at each flower's enameled brim,
Breathing in murmured music at their glad hymn;
The Nereids come from their deep ocean-caves,
Deserting for a time the saddened waves;
The Dryads from the dusky solitudes,
Of venerable and majestic woods;
The Naiads from deep beech-embowered lakes;
The Oreads from where hoarse Thunder shakes
The iron mountains; --wandering through cool glades,
And blushing lawns, when first the darkness fades,
Before the crimsoning morn,
And where the young Day's sapphire tints are gone,
Gather the fresh-blown flowers, gemmed with the tears of dawn.
Come, gentle Queen! we spill to thee no blood;
Thine altar stands where the gray ancient wood,
Now green with leaves, and fresh with April rains,
In stately circle sweeping round, contains,
Embowered like a hill-environed dell,
A quiet lawn, whose undulations swell
Green as the sea-waves. Near a bubbling spring,
Whose waters, sparkling downward, lightly ring
On the small pebbles--round whose grassy lip
The birds and bees its crystal waters sip-
Thine altar stands, of shrubs and flowering vines,
Where rose with lily and carnation twines.
We burn to thee no incense. These fresh blooms, Breathe on the air more exquisite perfumes,
than all that press the overladen wind
that seaward floats from sands Arabian.
No priests are here prepared for sacrifice,
But fair young girls with mischievous, bright eyes,
With white flowers garlanded,
And by their young, delighted lovers led,
with frequent kisses,
And fond and innocent caresses,
to honor thee, in place of prayer and sacrifice.
( Behind this cut are pictures of Cheyenne and Rose, and the top of my head covered with flowers )