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Oh, Flora, sweetest Flora, goddess bright, 
Impersonation of selectest things, 
The soul and spirit of a thousand springs 
Bodied in all their loveliness and light, 
A delicate creation of the mind, 
Fashioned in its divinest, daintiest mould, 
In the bright age of gold, 
Before the world was wholly lost and blind, 
But saw and entertained with thankful heart 
The gods as guests,—Oh Flora, goddess dear, 
Immaculate, immortal as thou art, 
Thou wert a maiden once, like any here, 
And thou didst tend thy flowers with proper care, 
And shield them from the sun and chilly air, 
les — 
Wetting thy little sandals through and through, 
As all flower-maidens must in morning dew, 
scrolls Roving among the urns and mossy pots, 
About the hedges and the garden plots, 
Straightening and binding up the drooping stalks 
That kissed thy sweeping garments in the walks, 

Setting thy dibble deep and sowing seeds, 
And careful-handed plucking out the weeds,” 
A simple flower-girl, and lowly born, 
Till Zephyr bore thee to the heavens away ;— 

And thus it was,—flying one pleasant morn 
Behind the golden chariot of the day, 
Sighing amid the winged laughing Hours, 

In love with something bright which haunted him, 
Sleeping on beds of flowers in arbors dim, 

